Cobwebs turn to lint

And there is nothing on the vine.

Dry constriction,

Patchwork of a helix past.

Armadillo scurry and dig,

Voronoi body and rat tail,

Suspended leaf on a single thread.

Twirl and swing, a country dance.

Something stoic and dark and small watches,

A tumor in the forest. A stone’s throw,

Transfixed.