While the eyes of the country were on the courthouse in Atlanta, where a former president and his allies were charged with trying to steal an election, I was in the woods south of Stone Mountain.
Going out, early in the morning, I was walking into the sun and could see the webs of orbweavers throughout the forest. They were everywhere. The webs caught the light, which came through the forest at a low angle.
On the way in, with the sun at my back, the webs were invisible. I tried to imagine a rational bug, a flying insect. Would it fly into the sun so it could see the danger? I wondered whether that kind of strategy is possible in nature.
With the light in my face, I could see the webs and their builders. But it’s also true that I have only recently wanted to see them. I only recently became interested in them.
This is the way I learn: I was able to identify a kind of common orbweaver, Leucauge venusta. Once I came to know it, I began to notice it. And since it’s a common spider, I began to see it everywhere.
The Wise Woman planted some flowers in the front yard and was dismayed when she saw signs of aphids. She talked of countermeasures. She was explaining this as we sat on the porch, and, as she talked, I noticed an orbweaver, working on a web near the beleaguered plants.
The spiders, like the Wise Woman, had made the same discovery. She saw pests. The spiders saw food.
The Wise Woman is not fond of spiders. But she agreed to let the web be. And so I have been watching with interest bordering on fascination.
Our house has three bird feeders, which are being visited now mostly by blue-gray gnatcatchers, and a hummingbird feeder, which does constant business. But it also now has a protected area for orbweavers.
At one point in my life, I promised myself that I would not be the type of old retired man who talked constantly about what he’d seen at the birdfeeder.
It’s worse than I imagined.
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