I almost missed seeing her and her handiwork. The morning sun was low and bright -- and behind me. I was as unaware of her presence as any bumbling Blue Bottle.
As I passed a glint caught my eye. Thy ere she was. A common garden spider. But she had picked as her hunting territory the middle of my neighbor's front yard. What amazed was the absence of any nearby anchorage for her web. She had managed to attach her master guy wires from points on the lawn to a tree nearly ten feet away. No roustabout for Barnum could have set better lines.
Such a clever girl. I almost expected her to start weaving messages for the passing commuters. But no E.B. White spider she.
She had work to complete. The day was starting and she had not yet finished putting her last strands of death in place.
To me, on that morning with my dog, she was a better busker than any Manhattan performance artist. I would have left her a dollar, but it would have been as useless to her as her creation was calming to me. And her senses were not designed for my eccentric applause.
She was a being of purpose. And I had to pass by. To leave what was ephemeral and probably destroyed by the evening. I just hope she dined well.
