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When each gust of wind grabbed it the web 
convulsed, its thready grid rolling like one of 
those animations of a space-time warp. 
Its sole denizen hunched, hungry, in the refuge 
of a redwood mooring, senses alit with need, 
as another windy wave tugged at the dawn's 
dew-beads until they dropped from lofty skeins 
- a thousand warning lights crashing to the ground. 
Sans reflection, the newly veiled strands billowed 
in sticky menace to any hapless wanderers. 
Yet as the winds ebbed and the day dimmed, the bare 
silk-beams betrayed their architect, chance's chump, 
whose darting eyes plied the dusky void for a windfall.

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Maryse Hile

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