by ivan cole

The sea and air are almost still.
Across the bay the mountains are reflected
and from them blows the slightest of breezes.

Thin white strands
almost invisible in the air
but when your eyes adjust
there are thousands.

Spiders silk threading through the air,
floating up or sinking down on the currents.
In the middle a capsule

Strands winding around
a spider with limbs finer
than its own silk,
release on grounding.

With a sudden surge of will
they rush across the sand
to the shelter of the scrub.

In their mountains
how could they have known
of this shore
across the vast bay.

The master could draw a proverb.
I can only see uncertainty in their migration
In our seclusion.