a random revelation

flashes along the strand

from a small dead branch of the Monterey Pine,

signals shoot out toward the sky,

like tracer bullets in an old war movie:

bright flashes that race upwards as if to point,

it seems a spider spun a strand

that the wind now keeps taut,

and the bright afternoon sun catches it, undulating,

such a random revelation,

but it centers my world for a time.

by Henry H. Walker
June 17, ‘18