A butterfly wakes. Cold air has lifted from weeks of stillness, and the sun is shining warmth. The butterfly is flying. It flies over a dormant land, grasses wintry gold. The green is only sprouting. I am sitting in my yard, breathing the hint of spring -- silent, watching. The butterfly flings over my fence. It shoots past seed heads of gaillardia and bee balm. It shoots across a bed of sleeping lantana and dives into the straw grass beside me. I lean over. A white butterfly nectars atop a head of yellow. Dandelion.