Alone at night, but for the moths, who cascade through my open bedroom windows. I welcome them in and watch them for a while, as they flutter around like a crazy miniature circus.
Eventually, they settle on the glowing, bare plaster walls. Some cast disfigured shadows, like tiny monsters. A hooded vampire with twitching tentacles.
Some are masters of disguise and blend in where they can.
Others cluster round my lamp, a single artificial light in the dense country darkness.
Raggedy dancers, spreading their dresses.
The large, ungainly Elephant Moth, whirring and thumping on my pillow. So clumsy on foot, so elegant when air borne.
Skinny, gallumphing daddy long legs, careering about like out of control trick ponies.
The sweet plume moth, who's prettier common name is 'Angel Moth', dressed in downy feathers and stretching her elegant legs.
Sometimes, they come to me.
I leave the windows open and turn off the lamp. By morning, they are all gone and the walls are bare.
