Caught in the middle of a glistening web,
her wings flickered
uncontrolled with the morning breeze.
Now lifeless, there was no migratory purpose
to fight her restraints.
Flight and biological promises ended
at the edge of each of her paper thin wings,
suspended between the intricately woven circular grid.
It took billions of years to spin the web of life
and still sorrow lays her hand upon
the breath of beauty
and we call it a cycle.
Orb shaped lights dance between oak branches
pretending a great mystery is enough reason
to head south anyway