At The Lemon Fair, they unfurl their silks wherever they can: between newel posts, furniture legs, door frame corners, rims of hand-thrown stoneware mugs. Someone may feather-dust them every day, but every day spiders return, again, and again, and again, as spiders do.
They are nothing if not tenacious.
Patient, too.
On my own porch, to the left of the front door, a small arrow-shaped orb weaver hangs like an astronaut, tethered in space. Only sometimes is the web faintly visible, only sometimes do I see prey caught, only once did I see the spider wind a meal.
This Micrathena sagittata guarding my door, an arthropod familiar, whose company I keep, who keeps mine.
We each go our own way.
With respect.
