moth

I was taking pictures of my gardens, and hey if one can't hold the camera to the eye anymore (risking laughter from bystanders), then why does it have to reflect my white blouse? Can't see a thing. That's what we call aim and shoot (and delete).

As I approached my water fountain, I noticed tiny moth legs waving, belonging to a tiny moth on its back in the water. I scooped it up so the wings were on my finger, where they remained afixed as the legs continued to wave. Thinking this was a good time to practice being in the moment, I allowed the wings to dry in the sun and in my presumed body heat. It took a while. The moth had tiny legs with fragile appendages, called comb legs. It had a white snout like a slice of cantalope rind that strained upwards in the attempt to free its wings. As it legs clung to another finger and I barely breathed, afraid to crush it between wings-finger and legs-finger, it finally pulled away to embrace legs-finger. I gasped at the set of wings still pasted to wing-finger, then realized the ephemeral moth imprint was a reflection in fairy dust which I too quickly dusted off. I won't forget the perfect image.