Kimberly L. Becker Hitchhiker 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.

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