It is Sunday. The weather is perfect. I get up early and go diving with the neighbors. It is perfect.

Kylie Minogue and Jason Donovan

I go to buy bread at the amazing bakery next to my flat.

This is the bag they put my croissants in.

I go for a walk down a pathway that I have seen many times but not had the opportunity to follow. Today is the day. It winds along a a stream in a hidden valley. There are butterflies everywhere. Some are large and yes, some are small. Some are like  pure white pieces of tissue paper that float in the wind bereft of any will. The sun shines through their wings. Others are jet black and swoop with the purpose of stealth bombers. What unites them is there reluctance to be photographed.

Spring

A little one

It is a beautiful walk

Happiness is a butterfly, which when pursued, is always just beyond your grasp, but which, if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you.

That last caption is so true. As with most things concerned with nature there is a correlation between how fast you are moving and how much you see. In a car you see little, on a bike more, walking even more. If you stop and like chill, you are in the middle of it and so I repose by an ancient tomb.

What would Wordsworth have said?

Huge grasshopper

The last of the Mohicans

They also serve who only sit and wait

What kind of wierdo, jurassic park frogs will these become?

This one is big

Once I read a story about a butterfly in the subway, and today, I saw one. It got on at 42nd, and off at 59th, where, I assume it was going to Bloomingdales to buy a hat that will turn out to be a mistake – as almost all hats are.

I then set off for a social gathering on a beach but alas Big Red is sick. The rear wheel is buckled. How? Maybe this.

Big Red thou art sick.
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm:

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

Crimson Joy