T.S. Eliot says that April is the cruellest month. I think that it's September.
The spider who comes every night to our back porch furiously respins her web every evening. She is tremendously fast, the web intricately woven. She speeds around and around, using one set of legs to secure the thread to each diagonal, another set to maintain her movement around the circle. Most mornings, the web is gone, except for this one, when someone in the house caught a picture.