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The cobweb on the lawn is white with dew at dawn, a handkerchief dropped there in some forgotten game, a sign, a souvenir of one who passed here in the night the way a queen might drop a scarf to be retrieved by favorite courtier. The f abric is immaculate until the sun cuts through the trees and makes the cloth a page of light as many colored as the sheet of an illuminated text, a hovering just above the grass, as though a dove sent from the sun. But later when you search the ground just wisps and filaments are found, and nothing of the morning vision, though grass itself is tender green. r o BErt m or GAn
Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press
Published: Apr 17, 2014
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