One morning fog ornaments spider webs all over Halibut Point. It accentuates their filaments as though in compensation for shrouding the grander views. It reveals an unexpectedly large population of spiders.
The precipitations bead along silken strands.
They confirm that the nature of art is intrinsic, a perfection of purposeful work.
That perfection advances or fails in peculiarities of sufficiency and deficiency.
Like all work, the pearls strain against the perils of entropy.
One spider weaves his scrim through the scarlet leaves of poison ivy. He either catches his prey or renews his net daily by consuming and recycling its protein.
Another drapes his thread through a theater of cedar branches. He would prefer invisibility for his ambush. Today it is conspicuous, and he gets admiration instead.