"You like butterflies!" People have said this to me more than once after seeing a body of my work hanging on gallery walls. My response is always the same: "Yes, I do, and it's more than that."

There are around twenty thousand butterfly species in the world, in an astonishing variety of patterns, colors, shapes, and sizes, almost anything you could imagine, and still recognizably be a butterfly. They are tiny, wild, beautiful creatures that flirt with us, tempt us with their closeness, and then move away. There is something about that quality - present and then gone - that has always captivated me.

Toni Morrison wrote that "Birth, life, and death — each took place on the hidden side of a leaf." That line pretty much sums up my artwork.

My fascination with nature is not limited to the things that are typically considered beautiful. I am absolutely in love with lush green growth, living creatures, things that are thriving, and at the same time, I find myself drawn to study closely the things that are no longer alive. Both pull at me equally, and I've come to understand that this is not a contradiction.

I just finished some new little pieces that I'm completely in love with. And one of them is already gone.

Restoration was claimed before it even had a chance to cool, so to speak. It was commissioned as a gift for a hummingbird collector and found its home before it ever found wall space in my studio. This is exactly the kind of work I love most:

The past week was an unusually busy one, and while I always make sure Ginty and I get out for at least a short walk, it had been six days since we'd had a real trail walk. We finally made it out this morning - a little over seven miles in four and a half hours. It was wonderful.

At one point

When I go out on the trails, I always keep my eyes open for interesting things, and sometimes those things seem to come in groups.

Today I happened upon two different dead rodents, which was notable because I don't always find dead things at all, and to discover two of a kind in one walk seemed almost comic. Both were right alongside the trail, not even tucked into the grass. First was a tiny field mouse, exactly the kind you might imagine as the hero of a children's book. It was a little sad, and even Ginty had the decency to just sniff it and move respectfully along. Later, on one of the single tracks,