Today the storms and the sun-dazzles mixed, the Black Swallowtails and the Jersey bulls. A massive gift: brief intimacy with one tiny Spring Azure, form marginata. My living decade dies, and somehow I survive it. My ex-lover is very good to me. Lenya Gurevich is very good to me; except that I might have rather had just that one picture alone, the fourth one down, you and me so vividly full of those times. And sad to see no Sarah and know why. Thank you, Lenya; thank you all beautiful women of my life, all beautiful men, butterflies, bulls even. Today Pete Higgins said to me in his spluttery Penobscot-county accent, "I thought I saw a long drinka skim milk out there in the field, I wondered if it was you!" So many hopes inflate my lanky body at this springtiming year's end; but I distrust them like the bemasked fears I know them to be. I trust love. And New England apple-blossom time, ecology of my birth.