Summer is the substance of things hoped for; winter, the evidence of things not seen.
So that what is seen in summer is not made out of things which are visible, but out of what is invisible in winter.
This morning, seeing the spider webs glistening, the ants everywhere, busy–the flowers still blooming, the dog sleeping, breathing, chest rising and falling.
Last night, the spider crawling on my arm. It was felt before it was seen.
I am in the web. Not caught, but weaving.