Nothing fancy…

I would like to write a poem about the world that has in it
nothing fancy.
But it seems impossible.
Whatever the subject, the morning sun
glimmers it.
…As for spiders, how the dew hangs in their webs
even if they say nothing, or seem to say nothing.

from “This World” by Mary Oliver

I have been noticing lots of spiderwebs lately all over the place. Less distracted, less traffic, slower pace? Have you noticed? What do they say to you? What shimmers?