Almost Summer by Kat Magendie

Though you can barely see them, there are intricate spider webs linking, looping, and lacing from the trees. They hang down, as if they are nets, which I suppose they are, nets to catch food for the spider. The webs start out as a few long threads that reach from the branches, and down, some connecting to the ground. On this almost-summer morning, the spiders have worked to further their web, and when the sun shines through the strands, it is lovely. The dew drops form on them like diamonds shining. Nature's jewlery is always more beautiful to me than anything I'd ever purchase in a mall.

There is that otherwordly mist, and the sun beams through and from it. Raccoon visited our feeder the evening before, eating the sunflower seeds with an unabandoned greed that makes me laugh, so I add more for the squirrels. The red squirrels tolerate me and sometimes take peanuts from my hands—although I never want to domesticate or personify our wild nature, I allow myself the red squirrel to eat a peanut. The chipmunks fill their cheeks and scurry away when I approach. Our birds aren't as frequent to the feeders—when it is warm, they find bugs, seeds, and berries to eat. Come cooler weather, they will be flocking here. The spiders must know the perfect time to cast their spell from branch to branch for those bugs, just as the birds know it’s high feeding here on the mountain.

And know this, when you curve around and find the sudden mountain view that was just a second ago unseen, when you see mountain after mountain, when you see them rising up and up and casting shadows, see them protecting all who they surround, when you round that curve and there they are, you will never forget it, it will never leave you, you will never want to leave.

Afternoon comes and I sit on my porch with a glass of good wine and wait for the dark to settle on me, heavy and full. The grinning old moon shines over and out and beyond. There are ancient spirits here; I feel them. Wonders of the world are on my mountain, some of the oldest in the world, ground down by time's weather. I have many dreams. My writing is in gratitude—the words of awe mean gratitude.