The tiny white feather has been trapped in the spider’s web for at least two days. The web connects with red brick on one end and a giant aloe vera on the other.
The spider pays the feather no mind. She intuits the difference between a fat juicy fly and a piece of bird fluff that holds no caloric promise.
I’ve sat a spell out here in the morning with my child bride noting the little white feather, among other things, these last two days. Perhaps the feather was there even earlier, and I simply did not notice. It does flutter in the breeze.
The days are quiet and damp. I woke for a time at 5 a.m. this morning, and I listened. Usually, there are tractor-trailer drivers stomping their air brakes on the highway curve up the mountain behind us at that hour. But the noise has vanished.
Other Latino racket that once got my goat has gone too, but I suspect it’s more a matter of getting used to it than that it has disappeared altogether.
Fireworks before dawn? I go back to sleep. The passing train? I usually don’t hear it. Rousing night concerts on the nearby plaza? Got the earplugs.
August is a good month to sit on the terraza in the mornings with grapefruit and pineapple — to watch feather fluffs on spider webs and hummingbirds on flowers.
And if there’s no noise, it’s better still.
A concerned reader emailed yesterday that I seem to be going a bit nutty lately. I assured her that I’ve never felt better in all my born days.