This is the season all the spiders wait for. This is the time, after the last molt, when the males become obvious, their petapalps, now obvious, jutting outward, like little clubbed hands, the males move about looking for the females that lie in wait. The orb weavers suspended within their vertical matrix, the fact that their eye sight is so pitifully inadequate, is a mere hinderance, never an issue, since they rely upon the tension changes that occur within their webs. So perfect, even with the holes and gaps; that the slightest movement will catch a gal's attention. Feast or foe, or a moment of amorous dance that can last all night long. Pity it only takes a second to actually happen, the 'coire complir.'
After the dance, the game begins, and a speed racer he must now become. His guide line, the spinnerets that hold his only hope of survival, must not fail him now. Like a bungee jumper he drops off and dangles, away from her reach, but only if he is lucky; only is he is faster than she, lest he become her dinner.
Image 1- Spider in a rose, a deadly trap behind a satin white petal.
Image 2- Female aranea, poised in the center of her freshly woven morning web.
Image 3- Sheeting that this species uses more than likelyto grab her prey from below.
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