This is the wrong time of the year to be writ­ing about but­ter­flies. It will be anoth­er month or so before the Mourn­ing Cloaks emerge from hiber­na­tion to greet the first warm day of spring. And even longer before oth­er species com­plete their meta­mor­pho­sis from egg to cater­pil­lar to winged adult.

Sum­mer mem­o­ries. Of fire­fly evenings long ago in Ten­nessee. Lin­ger­ing twi­light, dark pines, crick­ets singing, stars just com­ing into the sky. Run­ning on the long, slop­ing lawn catch­ing up “light­nin’ bugs” in our hands. We squeezed them gen­tly between our fin­gers to set their tiny fires alight, or dumped them by the dozens into a jar to make a lantern.