They fluttered about us as we sat on our striped fold-up deckchairs on that piece of wasteland that we affectionately call our garden. They like it as we do. It smells a little rank, especially in the heat but I appreciate its wildness the way the so-called weeds have taken over since the bulldozer left. The butterflies, mostly white ones, chase each other about, jostling in the air, a raging at times of flutterings. They calm me. Their perpetual fluttering calms me. I found another tiny piece of pottery again. And we’ve finished the book of crosswords. I think of Mary Oliver’s first poem in the book she gave me, as I sit doing nothing but giving suggestions to the clues he reads out. I think about her conversation with the fox. You fuss, he told her, we live.