NOT CHARLOTTE'S WEB

For the past three weeks, every Saturday morning when I went to check on the blueberries, natsume and biwa down in the south forty (square feet), I walked into a big spider web that had been strung across the path at head level between the azalea and momiji. This happened three times, and the web was destroyed three times. The fourth time I went, I was past the point before I remembered (previously the web had reminded me right in the face). I went back and looked: the web didn't say anything like Charlotte's, but the spider had indeed rebuilt it, only this time just above my head level. Could it be that her spiderness had noted and registered my height and the repeated destruction of the web thereby, and finally adjusted accordingly? It was spooky; previously I'd thought, like most people, that spiders were geniuses geometrically, but pretty dim otherwise. Now, however, it looks as though their IQs might be a lot higher than we merely four-limbed hubrists give them credit for. The question now is: should I let the spider borrow my books?