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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