Waking up to a world full of cobwebs

This morning Mexico went off Daylight Savings Time so we turned our clocks back last night. I'm never sure if we gain or lose an hour in the process, maybe neither.

Stew woke up grousing about the soupy morning fog that lapped at our windows, coming after several days of iffy, partly cloudy weather. You get spoiled by a climate where full sun catapults you out of bed each morning three hundred or more days a year.

This piece of spiderwork was about eighteen inches across. 

Resting after a hard night of work.

This morning the fog brought an eerie landscape of cobwebs that spiders spent all night creating, a spectacle I remember once before. A mix of fog, mist and dew, plus the low sunlight at dawn, created a spooky scene Edgar Allan Poe would have liked.

A ground-level enchanted forest.

How do spiders cast the threads of their webs
from plants that are several feet apart?

Stew and I walked outside for a half hour oohing and aahing like two five-year-olds seeing cobwebs for the first time. The dogs, their fur soaked by the morning dew, dutifully followed us though theirs was a businesslike strut as if either they had seen this show before or had more important things in mind. 

The cobwebs came in all shapes, most the usual star-like configurations tenuously hanging between plants, other seemed like bundles of fine yarn lying on top of the ground covers while a few enveloped groups of plants with a gooey embrace. There were hairlike cobweb filaments spanning trees yards apart. How did a spider do that and why? While some webs were neat and finished-looking others looked disheveled and ratty.

These didn't get too far off the ground. 

Then it dawned on my that maybe that's the purpose of the change in time: To force us out of bed earlier—or later?—so we can catch a stunning spectacle of nature we'd otherwise miss.

A wrapping of cobwebs in time for Halloween. 

Location, location, better to trap any insects trying
 to get between these two organ cacti. 

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