This One Begins Where the Last Dust of Today Settles

After dark, my dear, the commonest moths become precious as they feverishly sky-dance against the sharp points of the August turning into September stars.  In the morning, though, I find the moths clinging to the outside of my windows, folded and rolled together like miniature newspapers, stock still, their lives nearly spent.

Moths have but a single, brief life.  But I think we have been granted two lives.

Our first lives, lovely as they were, crashed with loves lost and tragedies internalized.  This new one might possibly begin where the last dust of today settles into the row of pines just beyond my home.  What if we were standing just there as the moths first released into the pink of dusk?

Might we begin there?

But, my dear, we can barely try if we are not standing there together.

--Mitchell Hegman