In the morning haze the light is white, not golden
The sky is white, not blue
The chirping and chattering of the birds
And the distant sounds from the highway
Are all white noise
Moving across the horizon like a long, breaking wave.
Hoist like sails between the power lines,
Dew-laden spider webs billow slightly in the light breeze
Last night’s work, all of them
Almost unbelievable in their intricate geometry
They expand and contract like lungs.
The branches in full foliage droop and sag
As if not yet awake.