As mourning cloak butterflies hide in dark bark of trees, and on a rare sunny afternoon emerge in the thin gold gauze to skitter, flit around till early dusk, then return to shelter, fold and forget . . . so do I. Lured by the snare of sun, I watch the chickadee swooping in a tulip tree, I know the hibernating bluegills and dragonflies will soon emerge under the larkspur sky of Spring. Meanwhile, back to the warmth and aroma of stew, simmering in the kitchen, blue afghan on the sofa, popcorn in a yellow bowl, and burrow deep in a book and head dream-drawn to Bali and by the evening star, head straight for Java.