Like an acrobat suspended in mid air, the spider hangs, precariously buffeted by every draught, yet somehow supremely secure. He patrols the webs silken threads with ease, making little attempt to hide his presence, confident of the webs viscidity. The flimsy gossamer structure glistens in the early sunshine, revealing little kaleidoscopes of colour between the woven skeins, miniscule dewdrops secreted away beneath the more obscure corners. Spun from window ledge to leaf, the spider confidently waits. Breakfast will not be long. The sun is up, the world is awakening, and all he has to do , is wait.





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