Dismantling the web
I have been watching a yellow spider out my window at work. Not sure what kind, but maybe one of these. For a few days, she had an impressive 4-foot-diameter web strung between the branches of a liquid amber tree.
She sat sedately in the middle of the net, a bright spot among the green foliage. Occasionally she would venture out along a radius to mend a section torn by a passing leaf or jutting twig. I was amazed that the structure generally survived even strong gusts of wind.
A few days ago, the spider suddenly became active, scurrying up and down the threads. I thought she had caught something big, but couldn't see the victim. Then I thought she was rebuilding a large section-- perhaps it had finally torn more substantially and needed major repairs.
But no. She was dismantling the web.
It was as well-planned as the building of a web. She raced along particular threads, severing them at their anchor points only after she had devoured the strands branching from them. Yes, she was eating the web. After all, if she got no gain from it, there would be no reason to dismantle it-- she could just leave and move on. But by taking in the material used to create this web, she fills her body with the potential to make the next one.
I watched as the structure was broken down over about 15-20 minutes. I noticed that some optimization was at work: She did not, in the end, take down every last thread. She did perhaps 90%, then vanished off into the leaves to find a new place to set up. Evidently the energy gained from cleaning up every last bit would not have been worth the effort.
Nature, it seems, does not tie up all the loose ends.
How did she know that this was the morning to tear down the web here and go set it up there? How did she know when it was no longer worth cleaning up the remaining threads? Now that she has moved on, does she ever think about the old location and the grand web she had there?
She sat sedately in the middle of the net, a bright spot among the green foliage. Occasionally she would venture out along a radius to mend a section torn by a passing leaf or jutting twig. I was amazed that the structure generally survived even strong gusts of wind.
A few days ago, the spider suddenly became active, scurrying up and down the threads. I thought she had caught something big, but couldn't see the victim. Then I thought she was rebuilding a large section-- perhaps it had finally torn more substantially and needed major repairs.
But no. She was dismantling the web.
It was as well-planned as the building of a web. She raced along particular threads, severing them at their anchor points only after she had devoured the strands branching from them. Yes, she was eating the web. After all, if she got no gain from it, there would be no reason to dismantle it-- she could just leave and move on. But by taking in the material used to create this web, she fills her body with the potential to make the next one.
I watched as the structure was broken down over about 15-20 minutes. I noticed that some optimization was at work: She did not, in the end, take down every last thread. She did perhaps 90%, then vanished off into the leaves to find a new place to set up. Evidently the energy gained from cleaning up every last bit would not have been worth the effort.
Nature, it seems, does not tie up all the loose ends.
How did she know that this was the morning to tear down the web here and go set it up there? How did she know when it was no longer worth cleaning up the remaining threads? Now that she has moved on, does she ever think about the old location and the grand web she had there?
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