Evening sunlight reveals patches of spider silk crazing a corner of the window glass. I then notice other strands, breeze-blown like thin banners streaming from the mulberry tree's green buds. For a few moments, balmy day glitters in a silver net, then escapes as the trees conceal the sun and cast their dimming shadows farther east. Earth turns and removes the day. Soon, Venus gleams alone on cobalt velvet until deeper darkness induces the lesser stars to reveal themselves, and other windows glow along the street. But my window has lost its magic. It has become mere dark glass, reflecting a murky version of my ordinary room. I know the silk remains, but I regret the loss of that transient light which briefly made it strange and wonderful.