A fine fall morning reveals a host of tiny cobwebs in the roadside white clover. Up close, they are filled with glittering drops of dew, delicate tapestries of miniature crystal.
Dozens of spiders must have laboured through the night, hoping to catch their breakfasts. I hope they were successful because, by afternoon, not a trace of spiders or webs are to be found in the clover.
So where have all the spiders gone? And how do they feel about having start all over again spinning their nets against the forces of dew and wind? I bet they are wearing silently to themselves in spider curses.
Even among the roadside weeds some advanced labour efficiencies are sorely needed.