I settled in to watch like I used to do when I went fishing. I used to sit for hours then, focused on my bobber and fingering the tension on my line. The bites or strikes were signs that I had understood something of the river’s mystery and its creatures. It had been a disappointing year for finding butterflies, and I had worried off and on about climate change and the disasterous Anthopocine. Throughout June and July, only cabbage whites and an occasional azure had visited the flowers. Now I