…a green spider…no bigger than a fennel seed, the hue of a fiddlehead…slowly approached…its underworld mirrored in the black glass…I offered my finger, and it gave welcome…atop the crescent moon of my nail, it spun silk…liquid descension, fluid ascension…with the breeze it took to the west…and I watched in awe…a mote of life…free in its will…
E.A. O'Connell
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