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Strands of silk, thinner than a breath,
spun with a patience we rarely possess.
An invisible architecture revealed
by a bead of morning dew,
a sudden glint of sun.

Intricate.

A geometry born not of compass or ruler,
but of instinct, of a silent knowing
etched in the very being of the spinner.
Each thread placed with a purpose,
a sticky snare in the vast indifference
of the garden.

A tapestry of hunger and hope.

Look closer. The radial lines, taut and strong,
leading to the silken spirals,
a delicate labyrinth designed to entrap.
A brutal beauty in its function.

What does the spider think,
as it navigates this self-made universe?
Does it marvel at its own creation?
Or is it merely a tool, an extension
of its primal need to survive?

We, too, weave intricate webs.
Of relationships, of ambitions, of beliefs.
Invisible threads connecting us,
sometimes ensnaring, sometimes supporting.

Are our patterns any less instinctive?
Any less driven by need?

The wind whispers through the silken structure,
a fragile strength swaying against the unseen force.
Resilience woven into fragility.

And when a struggling insect lands,
the web vibrates, a silent alarm.
The creator stirs, its eight eyes sensing
the disruption in its carefully constructed world.

A universe contained within dew-kissed threads.
A testament to patience, to instinct,
to the intricate dance of life and death
played out in the corner of our awareness.

Thought-provoking, this fragile design.
A reminder that even in the smallest of things,
a profound complexity unfolds.

©bfa051225

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