May unfurls into roses—their display of pink petal is bawdy, their fragrance lasciviously abuzz with bees. It lasts but a few weeks before it crumbles, scattering onto the winds and cool rains that the Three Chili Saints bring mid-month. The mountain snows have started to melt, filling the Rio Grande and the damn lakes to the north and the south of ABQ. The mountain is a singing green. And the valley floor is too. Everywhere is soft and thick with mud. The robins have returned, and they splash and chortle where ever the rain water gathers. The butterflies emerge and stretch their wings. They will feast on flowers; mate and lay eggs that will hatch into wriggling larva. Some will make it through, fattening themselves on garden favorites before nesting into cocoons, and beginning again. But some will find themselves in the grasp of a hunting wasp. And so it goes.