I had a creepy good time Friday night watching the spiders at work; there's at least three or four big-bellied critters in each working light alcove. I'm a reformed arachnophobe; I used to hate all forms of spiders but have steadily grown to enjoy what they do. Being so close to these ones without the safety of glass or even big cans of Raid was both thrilling and unnerving. I laughed at a little fly buzzing around my head. I told it that it was not long for this world but it did not heed my warnings and instead flew up towards the light and into the web of the biggest spider, which then savagely plucked the longitudinal strands of its web, one by one, to figure out which section had ensnared the prisoner. Then it suddenly dropped a few inches off the web and swung up towards the insect's location, carefully embracing it with quickly wibbling legs (these spiders are the kinds with obscenely bulbous bodies and thin, spindly legs. I don't know which legs are worse on spiders, the thin spindly kind or the fat hairy kind. Both can be equally creepy.)
Then the spider dropped down several inches again, coming perilously close to the top of my head and then seemed to wind itself up on its own web strand. I didn't see its little legs moving as it just zoomed back up to the center of the web. There it deposited the wrapped fly with the others and resumed skulking, perfectly poised in the center of the web. (The train came and I went in and sat down and itched phantom itches all over my crawling skin like crazy. It was odd.)
The best part though is getting other people to look up at the webs. Nobody realizes all the spiders up in there because, well, nobody ever looks up at the lights. But if you see someone looking up, you naturally look up, too, and -- oh my gosh there they are. Not everybody shared the grinning enthusiasm I had for the display of nature, though. Go fig.