A wind blew across the foam tipped waves, down through the tangles of trees, across the sun baked plains. Hints of salt, peonies and grass tantalizingly danced in its invisible grace. Down and around the buildings that stretched up into the sky, swirling the trash in the alleyways, and entwining itself among the tubes of ignited gas, lighting the city in a pastel haze, as the winds do.
An emerald spider skittered carefully across the warm tubes, a trail of silk stretched as it was woven into the web. The wind teased around the edges of the building causing the nigh invisible net to billow out. The spider paid no heed to the flowery scents as it huddled low, traced the vibrations for a moment, then resumed its course. A mindful mindlessness in efficiency, it never ceased its weaving, as spiders do.
A large brown moth with wings kissed by the moon fluttered across the alley. It landed carefully, dainty legs and velvet wings stretched out as it explored the rotting fruit that released sweet spores into the night. Sated, and with the knowledge that time is fleeting, it began to fly. There was an awkward luxury in the steady silent flapping, an intense introspection. By instinct, the wafting notes of peony reached it, calling it forth. A gentle wind lifted it, ensconced the wings to carry it higher and higher, as moths do.
The spider paused, multifaceted eyes staring intently. The web forgotten, it leapt to action. The moth struggled against the sticky strings, become more entrenched, deeply entangled. The spider wove, as spiders do, wrapping the moth in a second cocoon. And the wind continued on, as winds do, untethered to the world it affects.