When we came home across the hill
    No leaves were fallen from the trees;
    The gentle fingers of the breeze
Had torn no quivering cobweb down.
The hedgerow bloomed with flowers still,
    No withered petals lay beneath;
    But the wild roses in your wreath
Were faded, and the leaves were brown.
 TS Eliot
A festoon of cobwebs littered the bushes - what incredible things they are, so complex and these so perfect. I didn't see the owners.

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