she rebuilds the web most mornings. the old one is collected, eaten, and spun again across the same gap between the rosemary and the fence post. by eight the new web is loaded with dew and you can see it without trying. by noon you walk through it without noticing.
she waits at the centre, or just off-centre, where a leaf gives shade. when a fly arrives she is on it before the page spider in the library has finished its sentence. she does not waste a single wrapping. a moth is bound in eight seconds. a wasp she considers and lets go.
by late september she will hang an egg sac under the shed eaves and disappear. the web stays a week longer, less and less tidy, until a wind takes it.
— from a small distance her web is the most considered piece of architecture in the garden, and the only one rebuilt daily.