May unfurls into roses—their display of velveteen petal is bawdy, their fragrance lasciviously abuzz with bees. They lasts only a few weeks before it crumbling into the sun and wind. The mountain snow melts, leaving peaks verdant, and filling the river valley with a snaking mirror of blue water. The robin shouts a silver song into the morning twilight, before alighting in the hose water gathering under the peach tree. Just a brusque splash, before dashing into the brightening day. The butterflies float in and over the fence line. 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.