There are two brown sycamore leaves suspended by spidersilk right outside the window. The silk is grey and cottony with age; the spider is long gone. Now the leaves hang undisturbed, but at times they tilt, flutter, or twist, depending on the breeze. It’s —

the phone vibrates, the strand of thought disippates. Words fly away like autumn leaves.


Vibrations of an unfamiliar, yet cheerful voice travel through space to ear with greetings followed by a hesitant inquiry: “…do you have a moment to chat?”

Of course.

It’s a perfect moment.  A sacred and holy moment.

Pleasantries exchanged, a need expressed. Plans are tentatively made for the future and the connection is broken.

The leaves outside the window dangle in the breeze held by a thread of spidersilk.