7:30 a.m., the day after the rains
I walk out on Mother’s body
and across the valley I hear
the din of the logging machines
toppling trees to the earth.
The morning is otherwise hushed
and even though it is August,
I can see the cloud of my breath.
I skirt the lush shadows of the forest,
going by the road.
Some way ahead,
a fox crosses
and pauses to eye me a moment
before descending into the wood.
I follow the winding, shaded path
still hearing the hum and crash,
miles away,
of the loggers going about their business.
I suspect perhaps
no one asked Mother’s permission
told her how her hair
would be pulled out by its roots
or how her skin would be torn
and scarred
by hands that did not even touch her.
I come by and by to the creek
where forest gives way to marsh
as the water spreads out her skirts.
I stand on the bridge,
watching the slow-moving amber waters slide beneath.
Just as I often do,
I gaze south and west first.
Then I turn to the sun,
which has only just cast its face
over the treetops.
At the horizon I mark the graceful curve
of the still-green hills.
A single white pine
pokes its majestic crown high,
like a sentinel.
My gaze scans back down the creek,
and that is when the miracle besets me.
The sunlight, just topping the trees
reveals an infinitude
of spider webs,
their spiral threads
sparkling with dew.
Phantoms, translucent
some torn
some perfect and complete
hung by their weavers
in every bush
on every fledgling branch,
spiralling threads of diamonds innumerable.
I glance down and their reflections
shimmer and shift
like moons of ragged lace
rippled by the water.
Something stirs further on,
and a heron floats like a ghost
into the blue.
At first I cannot tell if her grey silhouette
is drifting towards or away from me.
She recedes,
and disappears.
I am left again
with the silence of the webs.
One catches the breeze
and billows like a sail.
I am holding my breath
for beauty,
not even wanting to move,
knowing I will never be shown this vision
in exactly the same way again.
Moment by moment
the sun rises higher
and soon these gossamers
will vanish—
these tenuous, elegant threads
with jewels glistening
showing self to self
again and again,
weaving and reweaving
the ever-present connection
that we take such elaborate pains
to forget.
