and silently collects the dew.
The angles form a hundred points,
not rare or far or few.
Do you see reflections,
in the spider's silk?
Every color in imagination,
From crystal blue to buttermilk
Then,
Ol' Aracnid creeps silently to his prey.
Perfectly wrapped bundles aare scattered through the mesh.
A frantic fly struggles and tries to get away,
but his wings are broken and covered in the mess.
A storm is coming now.
He tears each single strand down,
from every nook and wrinkled bow,
Shaking the dew to the ground.
The frail web falls, without a sound.