Spider Web Cobweb from Pixabay

An Arachnid Artist’s Average Day

Greg Prince
3 min readJun 29, 2019

The next moment is never guaranteed.

The perfect trap to set my weave appears like a sudden shock. There between those posts it will hang. Death and dinner await. My stomach is rumbling with anticipation, design, and the heat of the hunt.

Arcing my swing to perfection my jump times just right in the small breeze. Post to post. Lines of me, silk forming precise patterns stream from my abdomen.

Unwary insects will find final rest in my great engineering and invention.

If only that dragonfly will stay away. The last one, so strong and fast, ripped apart my beautiful network of filaments. Tiny hairs on my body tell me the fly is near and threatening. Stupid bug!

Time to rest now. Construction is done. The structure is set and patient waiting will result in meal after meal to feed my soon to arrive offspring. After I ate my last mate satisfaction and hopes for a more numerous future look bright.

Two of my eight eyes never close because I must remain vigilant. Should an intruder or snack arrive one must be ready.

The dark descends upon my composite threads and conceals lingering fate for my prey.

Dim light from the circle in the sky brushes through the tree canopy closeby. I sense the vibration of wings fluttering. Opening all of my eyes reveals a moth clumsily jagging near.

Relaxing moments are over and my strength is recovered.

His feathery antennae are first to touch. Then, wings and body stick, attaching to my threads. Little chance to escape now. I reach him and inject venom. He is paralyzed.

Covering the moth with my silk feels triumphant. Carefully, I wrap him and prepare to suck out every bit of his juices. A soup of nutritious yum.

Morning brightness shines all over my web and I’m full with last nights moth munch. At least the beginning of a new day has arrived with an intact trap and possibility to catch more meals.

I will rest again and calmly wait.

“Look at the spider Daddy,” Amy said.

“Don’t get close. That one could be poisonous.”

Greg Prince

Bringing real feelings along with messages of inspiration and imagination to life. Awakening is the symptom of my infectious condition. Poetry is my condition.