"Man did not weave the web of life, he is merely a strand in it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself." Chief Sealth She spins by moonlight, weaving wet strands from mailbox to brass knob, binding my door shut with her silk. Each morning I claw at the web, unraveling her mending from the night before. She watches from behind a clapboard, waits for darkness. What is this web to her that she will not surrender but patiently repairs my damage? Am I connected to the strands like the crumpled moth trapped in the sticky tangle in my hand, or like a nightmare snared in a dream-catcher? What is this thing I rip apart -- some kind of primitive survival map whose language has been lost to me? Just as her instinct is to claim this space, mine is to tear down obstacles. Neither of us will back down. One has to go, be banished from this struggle over territory. Perhaps this is the way all wars begin -- small battles fought in strands of gossamer. Regina Murray Brault 2007
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