My youngest child is leaving home in the fall, and my country is run by craven greed, and I no longer sleep all night, and I am feeling old and tired. But suddenly I think of the glister of a morning, only a month ago, when I was watering my butterfly garden, which is mostly cultivated weeds punctuated by the uncultivated kind that come back despite my pinching and tugging, and the caterpillars on the milkweed plants were unperturbed by the overspray from my hose, and the resident red-tailed hawk was gliding overhead, chased by a mockingbird and three angry crows, and the male bluebird was sitting on the nest box, protecting his mate, who was inside laying an egg. I remember that glistening morning—not even a morning, not even an hour— and I say to myself, Be an egg. Be a mockingbird. Be a caterpillar. Be a weed.