A Fine Night for Spinning

I noticed an abandoned, empty glass pill bottle rolling back and forth in the grit behind the dock's iron conduit. It made a dry, hollow rattle against the stained concrete that grated on my ears. Right inside the conduit's open junction box, a slender orb-weaver was struggling to anchor its web across the wide, drafty metal gap. I crouched down and jammed the glass bottle firmly into the corner of the iron box with both hands, wedging it tight so the rim created a sheltered, windless crook. Within seconds, the spider darted down to wrap its pale silk right around the slick glass lip. Now its delicate spiral has a sturdy anchor, and the annoying rolling has finally ceased.