There are helicopters over the Pass again. Eight a.m. and already seventy degrees, the sky a cloudless vault of white-blue heat. I sit alone and listen to the still air being shredded; now and then the whirlybirds appear over the trees, back and forth like vultures. There is no other sound, no other movement except the occasional butterfly dancing on my roses.
I should keep bees, I think. It would be a humanitarian thing to do. By which I mean good not only for the bees but for the human race as well.
Not that I begrudge the butterflies. My heart lifts a little every time one flits past, as though it would fly with the bright yellow wings and leave the shell of me here on my porch.