The largest black widow spider I’ve ever seen was living in our sunroom between a heavy cabinet full of garden tools and a wall. I caught a glimpse of her in the four inch space between wall and cabinet. Her belly was the size of a marble, and she was shiny like a girl’s hair. And, oh, those legs!
Ace Kitty (my tomboy) keeps bringing gophers home. She hasn’t adjusted to the time change. No matter what I say, she remains convinced that 4:00 is 5:00—supper time. In other words, “If you won’t feed me, I’ll have to feed myself.”
The most recent gopher that she brought home for dinner fled her mouth in our sunroom, stood up, authoritatively, on its hind legs like a prairie dog, raised its front lip, stuck it yellow front teeth out and hissed like a snake. Sure convinced Ace and me—we both backed away. That’s when the gopher took off for the widow’s hideaway.
What a commingling that must have been! I thought the spider would sharpened her stinger and begun an enormous dinner—a month of dinners. Michael had to explain, not the birds and the bees, but the spiders and the gophers.
The reason I’m writing this, though it hasn’t a thing to do, directly, with Jacks Peak, nor is it a mediation on life’s complexity that’s been brought to mind while walking in the park, is this: being in nature is causing me to be in nature wherever I am.
My awareness of the presence of the natural world has been woken up—nuance, detail, vigor, intensity. Is everything alive? Where have I been all my life?