A long and narrow
dew-laden spider web
extends from roof beam to porch rail
outside the window
where I sit in the silent house
with my early morning coffee;
four thin legs anchor top and bottom
criss-cross fragments
binding the strands
that span the distance
between beam and rail;
beyond the web
the fir the maple the cedar
fade into foggy mystery
and then nothing;
the green soggy valley is there
the hill beyond is there
the mountain is there
the blue sky is there
but they are disappeared;
they will be revealed
when it’s time;
for now
what is at the window
is crystal clear.