The Architect's Silence

A thread spun tight across the morning air, invisible until the frost takes hold, a bridge of light suspended, fragile, bold. She measures wind and anchor, weight and tear, a silent geometer in the grass, watching the slow parade of seasons pass. Each spiral drawn with calculating grace, a trap of silver where the dew suspends, where instinct starts and mathematics ends. And though the sudden tempest sweeps it bare, she gathers ruin from the broken frame, and builds the empty architecture same.