Under the forest canopy, birds call out to one another. Maybe they warn of the encroaching human. Leaves glisten with dew in the morning sun. Movement above, two birds flying between branches. That's when the spider web comes into view. It's spider season.
Yellow jacket laden with pollen, moves as if drugged, too much of a good thing. Caught in the twining, thin yarn of a spider who waits and watches for death to come to the dumbstruck insect.
Spinning as a trapeze artist might, across branches tall and short. under the branches the woods are alive. Their populations far beyond that of human civilization. We can't count the number of species, nor could we know their every purpose.
Sunlight's hue is different now that September is here. The summer is nearly exhausted. It tires of day light, seeking early darkness, and harkening a change.
The last of the beans have been picked. The tomatoes are sauced on shelves in the pantry. All that remains is jewelry of nature, a necklace of sorts to adorn the dressing of the woods and fields.