Strung concentric patterns, the woven silk of late summer spiders hung crystalline between sword ferns and fir boughs. Orb weavers dangle in the air, orange with black patterns, long spindle legs and wedge bodies, some as big as the end of my thumb. I watched one weaving, climbing circles around an invisible ladder. The dew had dried and I had to look at an angle to see the gauzy web. It dazzled silver, a desperate dream, torn down nightly, rebuilt with the dawn.

The spiders eat their webs, consume to re-use the filament strands, it gives new meaning to the term fiber diet. Their spun silk's tensile strength increases with the waxing moon, and weakens as the moon wanes. The moon shines full again on the 28th. The spider webs are larger, more elaborate, support lines stretching ten feet. The webs down by the river are huge, more than two and three feet across, suspended between pathway lamps and bridge trusses and tall tree branches. They luft gently in the breeze like silk scarves.

The radiant lines span from the center like the spokes of a bicycle wheel, a masterful invention, cleverly connected rung by delicate rung. I watched one spider constructing and weaving, mechanical legs catching and then counting and dragging the silk from spinnerets and hooking it to the lines previously strung. He moved constantly around and around, working his way to the center of the web from the outside. When finished, he will take his watching vigil at the center of the web, waiting, waiting.