Ordinarily, I do not care for spiders. I harbor a fear that one may appear in my bed, or catch me unaware, dropping from the ceiling to fall into my hair. Tiny ones who inhabit my front porch, making messy cobwebby creations, I keep at bay by spraying the area with a mixture of water, citronella, lemon and peppermint oils. A few not-so-big ones, I allow access to the house because I know they eat insects. Those who frequent the carport, mostly daddy-long-legs, I warn when I get out the leaf blower because their sticky webs are destined to be destroyed by the powerful blasts of air that keep the area clean of leaves and other debris. Every so often, though, like this morning, after our first hint of real rain in months, I spotted a wondrously intricate web in the back yard, one that has been meticulously built, and is inhabited by a colorful, unusually large, garden spider.
According to Wikipedia, “[This] spider species Argiope aurantia is commonly known as the yellow garden spider, black and yellow garden spider, golden garden spider, writing spider, zigzag spider, hay spider, corn spider, or McKinley spider. It is common to the contiguous United States, Hawaii, southern Canada, Mexico, and Central America.”
As I continued to read about the “gilded silver-face” (the translation of the Latin name) female who had constructed her habitation on the lowest branch of our pear tree and anchored it to the knobby trunk, I found phrases in the Wikipedia prose as captivating as the creature. Of all her common names, I liked “writer spider” the best because it fascinates me how this animal crafts the famous zigzag pattern (called a stabilimentum, “an extra thick line of silk”) in the center of her web. Borrowing from Wikipedia, here are more incredible details turned into what is called a “found poem.”
Females tend to be somewhat local
often staying in one place throughout
much of their lifetime, constructing
radial lines that stretch to anchor points,
then filling the center with a spiral of silk.
To ensure tautness, the spider bends
the lines slightly together then occupies
the middle of the web, usually facing
straight down, waiting for prey to
become ensnared. She, being master,
can oscillate her web vigorously even
as she remains firmly attached to the center.
In a nightly ritual, she consumes the circle
interior part of the web and then rebuilds
it each morning with fresh new silk. She
keeps a clean orderly web and never chooses
a dense location, but prefers openness.
She will choose to breed twice a year
if she chooses to be receptive to a male
building a much smaller web close by.
When he approaches, after courting by
plucking strands on her web, he must
make sure he has a safety drop line ready
in case She attacks him. Even then, after
inserting his palpal bulb into her, the male
dies, and is sometimes eaten by the female.
She lays her eggs at night on a sheet of silky
material then covers them with another layer
of silk, then more protective brownish silk,
producing one to four sacs with perhaps
a thousand eggs inside each one. She guards
against predation as long as she is able,
but as the weather cools, she becomes more
frail, and dies around the first hard frost.
Yet, when spring comes, the spiderlings
exit the sacs, so tiny they look like dust
gathered inside the silk mesh. Some remain
nearby, but others exude a strand of silk
that gets caught by the breeze, carrying
them to a more distant area, and it all starts
over again, another generation, more creation.
~LJ