Webs

He sits through eons observing whirling galaxies in spangled drops dangled from webs rocked by wind, plucked like instruments whose music only he can hear; webs walked by a furred arachnid, angle-legged, which moves from thread to thread as though on stilts. Fascinated by a spectrum split from sunlight by a bead of dew, he intercepts the colored bands with extended fingers of one fat hand and gurgles his delight, exhibiting a still toothless smile. His brain a sponge to soak up all knowledge the universe contains, this salivating son of simian evolution pulls the silvery web he watches from between the wall and faucet, destroying in a moment what centuries produced.