I was resting in my blue lawn chair in the afternoon sun, looking at the zinnias that had survived to this point in the autumn. Frost had been forecast for the night, but the afternoon was warm, no wind at all. One buzzard was drifting above me in the clear sky. Around the zinnias, flowers of the New England asters were gray, round tufts of seeds. Nursing a small kitchen glass of white wine, I watched for butterflies and bees. First came a silver-spotted skipper, inconspicuous brown, fitting