Half the stores are hawking Halloween soon-to-be litter. Plastic tombstones are the thing we can’t live without. Last year it was faux webbing, insidious in the way it clung to shrubbery. There it was at Christmastime trying to be mistaken for hoarfrost.
Spiderwebs are draped in every garden path. The orb weaver that I thought was hanging outside the window is inside the window, in the very spot he was yesterday, only now he has his orb surrounding him. I leave the door open for the fat flies to enter, hoping they turn into lunch.