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Low-slung nets made visible by dew
Appear suddenly one morning.
Trampolines of soft breath
And parachute precision.

Ghostly nets lassoed
Between teasels, while the see-saw
Song of the Chaffinch, slides
Along the rigging.

Twigs become cats-cradles, and every bush,
Every stalk is wired up
For spiders to go-ape.

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