This net,
strung in the cold heights,
alone before dawn on the mountain,
just sits.
Or stands or waves in the breeze,
defined by its limitations,
supported by deep branches extending into earth.
Immersed in cold damp cloud,
it does nothing;
no subtle invitation,
no picking and choosing,
no rarefied invocation.
On days when the cold is cold
and the damp is heavily moist,
the passive collector
drips liquid
to thirsty villagers.