I woke early this morning, started coffee brewing, and then stepped outside to sit in the hot tub. All around me, moths were haphazardly fluttering about. They know their time is running out. They need to copulate and set the stage for another frantic late summer dance next year.
Looking up, I saw the constellation Orion standing on the edge of my roof. Formed by some of the brightest stars in our sky, Orion (the Hunter) was peering out across the mountains and sweep of sky holding me in place.
Neither ancient Orion nor the frenetic and ephemeral moths took notice as a jetliner appeared among the stars and streaked toward Minneapolis or Chicago. I watched the blinking lights cross over until one of the moths slipped in mid-flight and nearly tumbled into the hot tub alongside me.
I would have fished the moth from the water and allowed the moth to flutter on. In the long run, there is likely no significant difference between the flight of the moth and the flight of the jetliner. We all seem migrating toward the sixth great extinction.
Some of us more proactive about our own demise than others.
Strong and solid as Orion is by night, each morning he quickly dissolves into daylight. Just as easily, a wispy cloud might wipe Orion away.
By full daylight today, I will find most of the sky heavy and stained by smoke from wildfires that are not distant enough. The moths will stumble away and hide one by one—maybe to be replaced by a murder of crows.
The crows mad and boisterous. The crows keen on extinction.