My neighbor comes across the street,
gives his usual smile and waves.
I stop, cut the mower's roar.
We chat, ordinary stuff.
In minutes, five, no more, he turns
to go. I see it then . . . a single
silken thread sticking to my sleeve.
I trace it to the other end,
find it fastened to our tree,
white oak, that stands four feet
away. In such short tick of time,
a line was cast, a distance bridged between,
vast by any standard,
an engineering feat that dwarfs,
by contrast, any man-made span.
Just a spider's spin, I think
and brush it off my shirt
with mild annoyance, missing
once again a chance to cheer.