A tortoiseshell butterfly crash lands on the grass. We think it is dead. When we return, a wasp is eating its head and its wings are gently moving in time with the wasp's eager feeding. An hour or so later only the wings remain. Heidi places them on the garden table, where they lie, a brief memorial for a brief life.
Hibiscus, its flowers like crumpled tissue paper, and sultry girls on palm-fringed islands, with the flowers in their hair, go together. We have a fine hibiscus.
People walk by with quiet footsteps, on this heavy, overcast afternoon.