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Carla Panciera

Webs. Everywhere along the dock. Elaborate, fantastic, larger than large hands unfurled. Sunset and I’m trying not to think of the spiders who made these, who might, as we sit admiring the colors, cloud formations, be waiting beneath us, who might be looking for a way back into the fading light. I’m listening to my friends, but I’m watching the webs. One spider appears, repairing the day’s damage before the night’s insects arrive. A healthy specimen, not the pale dust spiders I’ve learned to share my space with, but not the enormous dock spider I feared, either. Conversation continues. I sip my Magic Hat. Colors change, deepen. Ospreys hunt and so absorb me that, by the time I check again, every web is busy with spiders preparing for their evening meal. The dock narrows; the sky darkens. Time to leave, I say, meaning: time to leave this space to them.

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