…And on the edge of the field, between blackberry bushes, stood a metal, rusting gate. A traveling hunter/gatekeeper set up a gate of his own, one made of silk(!)… light and strong and almost invisible. He anchored it to the old rusting frame.  A gate within a gate.

Unsuspecting passersby tried to get through but many did not make it past the silken trap. They could hardly see it before it was too late. If ever there was a sign at this gate (I don’t know) it probably was “trespassers will be eaten.”  And he made a good living.

Winter came to the Pacific Northwest, followed by the typical wet, dark Spring. Endless rain. And, no more trespassers. Then the gatekeeper himself disappeared, never to be seen again.  Some say he was killed by airborne predators.  Or he may have simply frozen to death.   A terrible end, either way.

His silken gate still stands though. A bit tattered (but no rust) and still strong enough to catch some of the liquid pearls that keep falling from above.