Between the Lines

Admist the twilight traffic,
The ebb and flow
Of the city's voices --
A child's cry of,
"They want 19 million dollars!"
And also the black-capped chickadee's
Meal-time discussion,
As the Salsa music floats
From open car windows --
Spiders weave
Invisible webs.
Spinning silken threads
Along and between
The lines.
They are silhouetted against
A clouded, undulating sky.
They dance on drafts of air;
Spinning, twirling
To and fro-ing.
The light continues
To fade on this magical
And insignificant scene,
But neither party
Desires to quit
Our smoke and mirrors game.
And, I think:
Maybe a poem lives there?
In these moments.
Maybe they live everywhere.
Falling from our eyes
Like tears [of gratitude].
Maybe they live
When we hold
Our hands to our lips
And pour in to them
A silent
But powerful
Prayer.