A stretch of stream winds down through the rocks, as if someone's life, spreading in quiet pools, rushing in narrow places. It sings a sad song to white stones resting, bleached bones lying in the sun. And black-eyed Susans perk near young oak trees. The whine of saws grind down thorough the hills, tearing the still air. An orange butterfly lands on a leaf of sweet clover the size of two wings, beating, folding, stopped; and sips from a drop of dew. And butterflies that drink in streams, drown in droves.