They crawl along the tops of the trees, one tiny creature after another. The glue on their bottoms stick to the branches and they weave wonders out of white. Where the stuffs fall below the canopies, they become mirrors in the mud and show the dark side of the sky. But above--oh, above!--we see the final compilation, the splatter-painted tapestry. Every cold extending member of the frame is dusted with paint. The frame threads catch and hook and weave and scatter, caught with the cold darts of day. The eight-legged and ten-legged weavers pause. A quiet orchestrator, well known to the world, sits back and sighs. His workers settle with resign. It's done. A white web glistens in the gray.