I wonder about the metamorphosis of a butterfly as it is stored away in cocoon-darkness until its evolution is complete, and it begins to fly brilliantly.

The cicadas are here again, hanging from branches, clinging to the crimson tips of sunlight that tendril forth from deep green canopies. Like ghosts, they leave their bodies behind.

 The first time I saw a circus, I was fascinated by the clowns. They roared into the ring in a tiny car then jumped out one after another after another, falling over each other and leaping up to perform juggling and feats of magic. One white-faced clown in a top hat came up to me and pulled a coin from my ear. That did it. I told my mom I was going to run off with them and become a clown. But, the next day, when we drove past the lot where the circus had been, I saw my dream had been betrayed. They were gone.