Kathy Bradley - Moths and my reverence for the changing seasons
The coin-sized moth lay flat against the front door, its paired wings curving gently like Peter Pan collars.
I had crossed the yard, climbed the front steps and taken the porch in three long strides, my thoughts on a million things, when something – it may have been Owen darting between my legs hustling to get inside or the singular flash of light that blazed through an opening in the pines as the sun reached the horizon – interrupted my daydreaming and I noticed it, inconspicuous and still.
The moth was creamy white and pale tan, the colors mixed softly and unevenly into less a pattern than a smear.
It made me think of bleached camouflage or butter pecan ice cream softened by summer.
It looked nothing like the moths I generally see around Sandhill – the tiny white ones flapping against the porch lights, the occasional buckeye that makes me feel as if I am being watched, certainly not the rare Luna whose celadon wings shine in the darkness.
Author's summary: A chance encounter with a moth sparks reverence for the changing seasons.