Prose, for a Monday morning...

A web glitters with dewshine in the morning light, a fine crochet of spun silver.
A moth tentively step apon it's argentine threads,
and pauses to take a drink, dusty wings lulled by a warm breeze.
Birds on a wire prattle their tales, but he ignores their nervous chatter, content to refresh himself at the well. In an instant, He feels a thread strung taut and a tremble beneath him.
He senses a shadow from behind, but as yet it has no form, except for his instinct of danger.
At the moment he tries to fly, his wings are pinned by a band that tightens around his thorax, and he is paralysed by a sting of pain.
The silk trap is spun around him at amazing speed, and he watches the last filters of light fail his eyes and retreat to a dark grey...