There’s a family of cross spiders in the back yard. They’ve been there several years now and every year we watch as they lay their eggs and the new generation hatches. Every year the webs expand to accommodate the spiders that remain. Every year the position of the webs change as the oldest generation stops spinning. That space remains vacant until the next season when a new spider moves in and makes it their home.
It’s winter now—what passes for winter in sunny Queensland—and some mornings are crisp and dew-laden. The webs hang like tattered lace between the trees, heavy with dew, and the spiders rest under the overhang of the trees until the day warms enough for them to venture out and repair their traps.
All the webs are separate but interlinked, relying on each other for support, but the spiders usually remain on their own patch. Once a year they come together, meeting in the middle, then separate again to lay eggs and spin cocoons to hold the food for their offspring. It’s a busy couple of months.
Then everything settles again and their sedate, community-but-separate personalities once again come to the fore.
It’s winter now—what passes for winter in sunny Queensland—and some mornings are crisp and dew-laden. The webs hang like tattered lace between the trees, heavy with dew, and the spiders rest under the overhang of the trees until the day warms enough for them to venture out and repair their traps.
All the webs are separate but interlinked, relying on each other for support, but the spiders usually remain on their own patch. Once a year they come together, meeting in the middle, then separate again to lay eggs and spin cocoons to hold the food for their offspring. It’s a busy couple of months.
Then everything settles again and their sedate, community-but-separate personalities once again come to the fore.
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