Overnight the spiders had washed their webs and hung them out to dry on the hedge.
I imagine spiders with pegs, with silk aprons and peg pockets and curlers in their hair.
While the webs blow on the line they brew pots of coffee and settle at a table with a piece of bluebottle toast.
But the butterflies! They seem drunk on life, bumping in-out of leaves, slurring their flight, waving their bright wings. Have they been dancing all night? Are their shoes all worn through?
They will knock over the spiders’ best china, barging about like that.
The spiders seem stoic about it.
Life is a gamble, they say, and thumb through their cookbooks.