Sunnyside restaurant, Tahoe City, Lake Tahoe

As we eat on the deck above the lake
for the last time, weeks before
the restaurant will shutter for good,

beyond the blue, the mountains blush
as the sun lowers its curtain, then
purple and darken into evening.

The spotlight blinks into brilliance,
and—ta da!—the spider show begins
just over my shoulder on the railing.

Five of them, from thick-bodied
black to spindly-legged white, start
unspooling filament from their

spider spots, beginning the delicate
ballet that—so quickly—weaves
a series of wheel-shaped webs,

their sticky strands perfectly spaced
in the spiral, each dancer swiftly
sewing up gaps before retreating

to the center, head down, to wait.
And, sure enough, tiny flying things
immediately get snagged in silk.

The slender, pale spider is the first
to jump and snatch an insect as it
flies by, so fast the preyed could not

have seen its predator. And as we
eat our final Hula Pie before this
place closes, the dancers in the

Sunnyside spider show, having
jitterbugged their elaborate traps,
hunker down to see what flies in.

Where, we wonder, will the spider
show go when the spotlights
no longer light their night stage?

Will they take their show on the road?
Can they find shelter as the chill comes
and their systems pause for winter?

Can we?