|Kimberly L. Becker
Packing the car I see a moth on the door.
Gently I remove him so he won't blow
away or get wings torn
riding on our car that will go
too fast for mountain roads. He is loden
green with antler-like antennae.
The edges of his wings are the brown
of leaves gone to lace, crumpled and dry.
Bulbous-bodied, unlike his cousins, small
white butterflies that play across the orchard.
When I get back to the city I look online, but can't tell
what kind he is. Identification is hard
when you're not a lepidopterist used to mothing.
Still, I remember him, and that's not nothing.