The spiders are fishing,
stringing out tendrils
in a sharp afternoon light.
Unspooled, they snag grass, leaf, twig,
jag their catch and test the connection.

Then leap.

Watching them trust their anchor
lifted only on a breath,
I too lean back, close my eyes, let go.
An idling breeze lifts me and my feet
hang.

I rise on the scent of impulse,
forgetting my decisions.

But unlike the spiders
I drag line, net and hook like a drunkard.
I do not fall with grace.
In a wild-eyed blindness,
I am jettisoning silken threads.

There is no right or wrong
in this search for a rooted hold.
There is only my heart,
high in my throat.

I fish, not knowing.