Perhaps because their work is best observed, dew-garlanded, sun-illumined, at dawn, and times I've walked at dawn I've generally been intent upon the sea?
Perhaps because I've been too busy with other obsessions?
Now, when my main reflection time is the early morning, before the heat and rush kick in, their silent work, their busy presence, the wonder of their creations, constantly uplifts and fascinates me.
I wonder why their are not more poems, songs, art work, about the wonder of their intricate webs, how sometimes multitudes of spiders, sometimes spiders of different types, will cover a branch or bush or stand of grass in a palace of (deadly) webs.
It seems a curious irony that if the web fulfils its main purpose - to obtain food - it will be broken.
And I wonder at a spiders' thoughts when their constructions are maimed and destroyed by errant flying seeds or leaves, passing animals, or tempestuous weather. Do instincts merely propel them to begin again, or do they grumble to themselves and bemoan their fate?
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