‘Nothing [proves] a writer’s greatness more than his capacity to consolidate his scene by the use of what, until he touched them, seemed wisps of cloud and threads of gossamer.’  — Virginia Woolf

Gossamer is fascinating both to writers and to naturalists. And even the pictures we see of the vast, sparkling heavens appear to stretch out like dewy gossamer; banners of gauze that bedeck the halls of a mountain king.

This time of year I am always on a quest to capture gossamer; it fascinates me…I have yet to take the picture I crave. But it is a miniature world come to life in dew and morning light.

A curious kingdom, indeed. It did not exist the day before, but with tireless spinning from our unseen weavers, a fabric of dazzling geometry appears before our eyes.

(Read more of my enthusiasm for gossamer and its links with ephemeral poetry and literature in this post: Gossamer Abundant.)

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