Unseasonal in winter, gossamer streams ripple from trees, homes, and cars. Above, mummified kids hang like shoes from wires.

I whip past bones and potholes. Velocity’s super-important. If I fall and break a leg, I have four cans of bug killer in the bike’s basket, which might as well be mace for all the good they’ll do. Any last stand will be Custerian.

My coworker — the one always saying spiders are our friends — dangles cocooned and wide-eyed from an oak tree. Trying not to feel smug, I keep pedaling.

Graham Robert Scott lives in north Texas, grew up in California, and owns neither cowboy hat nor surfboard. His stories have appeared in Nature, Barrelhouse, X-R-A-Y, and others.