Fat and satisfied,
at night they command
the center of their perfect orbs.
 
By day they linger at the edge,
with one delicate tarsus hooked on a single silken strand,
waiting for the vibration that heralds a foolish insect,
the motion that makes sweet music and is
the signal to swiftly enter the arena and take the prize.
 
Warmed by the angled New England sun,
these plump predators are the lucky few
to have survived uncertain infancy,
the cold rainy spring,
and the long summer days filled with
birds and wasps who pick off the unwary
and leave behind empty webs.
 
As the days grow shorter
these kings and queens thrive and prosper,
feeding upon the last of the mosquitoes
(we thank them for each one snared and taken out of circulation)
and unlucky moths and even a few beautiful butterflies.
 
But as they bask in regal growth and health
Might they know that the end approaches?
And on the night of the first frost
they will tumble from their webs
with legs curled
and bodies cold
and lie among the fallen leaves and hollow parts
of their summertime victims.