Trapped in the web, the hunter spun his prey about the grey thread. Encased in bonds, the prey is still and only a yellow sign screams warning, like a light house among a rocky night coast to passing ships. The hunter moves off, a silly move I think, to leave a meal unattened. As I discover a second moored in webbing , a third adheres to the gosamer trap. Like a cattle prod searing flesh, the loud buzz of the alarm stirs.
Cattle stampede the land, instinct governs as they rush on, never giving thought to the movement.
As the sand begins to fall. Large evergreens, colored flowers, and shurbbery, become more of an obstacle than inspiration. Opportunities for comradery become only a collage of unrecognizable faces. As the grains move through the neck of the glass. Dressed in a dark wool suit, with a small golden timepiece contained in the left pocket.