I walk by a gossamer thread floating in the air. I don’t know whether it’s the work of a spider, but it’s thick, and we call it butterfly silk.
I see a small white butterfly hover over the road side flowers. It’s as if a primrose itself detached and began to fly.
The air, hot and heavy, is laden with the sweet smell of irises in neighbors’ beds, and the acrid smell of burning.
I eat a warm strawberry fresh from the garden.
Summer is soon to come.
What brings it for you?