Flight of the black moth

La pollila negra flits into the terraza and vanishes into the roof tiles. The hour is late and dark.

The ignorant eye first thinks: small bat. The hour is right but the flitting is wrong, far too gentle and lovely.

It’s a black moth.

We have a relative on the Plaza Grande, a woman fearful and sad, though potentially attractive. She fears many things, and is the only person we’ve known who’s afraid of butterflies and moths. Is there a name for this? May we paste a psychiatric label on her?

It´s the dust of their wings that gives her the willies. Isn’t that captured pollen, or are butterflies naturally dusty? Like some snazzy tropical women.

Nonetheless, seeing a big, black moth briefly in the darkness as sinister clouds approach does stir a certain unease.

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2 thoughts on “Flight of the black moth

  1. Steve Cotton says:

    OK. This one is simply beautiful prose. Thanks for a great read.

    Like

  2. Babs says:

    Breathtakingly beautiful.

    Like

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