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The human world runs on a whole set of tacit agreements that things are not what they are.
Like this myth of solidity. Nothing is solid. We're all just collections of molecules in motion.
Oh, sure, some of those molecules are packed really tightly. Like the ones in steel. And yes, as per those tacit agreements, we perceive one another... and everything around us... as a disparate collection of unique individuals.
We're not. We're all just clumps of molecules, floating around in a vast soupy stew, shedding bits of ourselves along the way... ingesting bits of others... setting off various chemical reactions and swimming in the consequences.
Or... as the case may be... drowning in them. Suffocating... as the lumps break down and the broth becomes, day by day, more and more homogenous.
The first ray of dawn light penetrates the forest to illuminate a spider web covered in dew. Note the star the spider has woven into the web at the top.
Two funnel-web spiders, possibly Labyrinth spiders (Agelena labyrinthica)
Agelena is a genus of agelenid spiders that trap their prey by weaving entangling non-sticky funnel webs. The genus is limited to the Old world, where it occurs from Africa to Japan. (Wikipedia)
7 July 2018, Malvern & Brueton Park LNR, Solihull
Why did this tiny spider build a web with this pattern? Very small (about 1cm across) and horizontal.
The web was strung between two wheelie bins and the other bins completed the background colours. I liked the bokeh in this shot.
Colorful rhythms in the breeze
Web strands shot during wind movement and under bright conditions provide an optical spectrum feast, due to waves of light being scattered by the silk - diffraction - speed of the shutter, and quantity of softness from a softly focused lens, i.e. not focused sharply on the web threads at any given moment.
Much of what I capture is by trial and error and a good deal of luck, not judgement, as I react spontaneously to these intriguing opportunities. The light however, has to be right.
The filaments are outside our double-paned kitchen window, which had been cleaned inside, but not outside. At the moment that I snapped this, the wind was causing the filaments to dance wildly. I was surprised that the image actually had any defined lines.
“This World” by Mary Oliver
I would like to write a poem about the world that has in it
nothing fancy.
But it seems impossible.
Whatever the subject, the morning sun
glimmers it.
The tulip feels the heat and flaps its petals open and becomes a star.
The ants bore into the peony bud and there is a dark
pinprick well of sweetness.
As for the stones on the beach, forget it.
Each one could be set in gold.
So I tried with my eyes shut, but of course the birds
were singing.
And the aspen trees were shaking the sweetest music
out of their leaves.
And that was followed by, guess what, a momentous and
beautiful silence
as comes to all of us, in little earfuls, if we’re not too
hurried to hear it.
As for spiders, how the dew hangs in their webs
even if they say nothing, or seem to say nothing.
So fancy is the world, who knows, maybe they sing.
So fancy is the world, who knows, maybe the stars sing too,
and the ants, and the peonies, and the warm stones,
so happy to be where they are, on the beach, instead of being
locked up in gold.