Without so much as a wave goodbye, a fond adieu, or even, "Thanks for the vittles," Peter Parker and his eight-legged, arachnoid buddies have taken off. Not one spider can I find now in the barn. Where do they go and how do they get there? I watch bird migrations all the time. Up around Honey Lake, I've seen barren hills appear to ripple and move with hundreds of deer on the way to winter feeding grounds. I've never seen a herd of pedestrian spiders on the march, though. The only reminder that they were ever here are the rafters festooned with swags of webs now covered in dust and bits of detritus tossed by the girls. The barn looks like Haversham House. I shall have to clean up as well as down.
Waking, the first thing I see when I lift my head is Venus, the morning star, shining brighter than all others in the still-dark sky. It's as if she lights the way or announces the sun's arrival in the east. Not a bad way to start the day, a diamond on blue velvet.