“Raking walls” courtesy of bricolage.108.A robin hangs out under the pergola, picking grapes off the vine. Pinch. Drop. Pinch. Drop. But the third grape the robin swallows in one giant, grotesque gulp. The patio stones are littered with rejected grapes in various degrees of decay, which attracts flies. At the feet of the picnic table and under the benches are tangled messes of sticky web that crackle when torn. The widows that spun these webs hide and wait.
But I know that soon: The grape will shrivel. The robin will migrate. The fly will die. And the widow, stiff from the cooler night and maybe a little hungry from lack of flies, will expose herself to the waning September sun to thaw out and warm up.
And I will squash it.
I squashed a big fat black widow the other day. It felt very right.
I agree. There's nothing so satisfying as beating a big black widow to death. And nothing that get's my heart racing faster, either.