Every year, a different color dominates the blossoms in the meadow--er, perhaps I shouldn't dignify it with that name. Let's just call it the field. Anyway, this year, it is white. I have a riot of tiny asters and Queen Anne's Lace, whose delicate saucers thrill me. They are light-headed, bobbing and swaying with every puff of air; those umbrels will never pose for a picture. My backyard used to be mowed regularly as a lawn; fifteen years ago I let it go to seed, and I've never regretted it. Neither have the birds and butterflies.