Moth

Spread mottled wings, a large hairy head lay flat upon the window glass clinging to its invisible rock-face. Up close eyes as black as the night, glimmering from the shine of a flashlight, but of themselves there is no glitter nor any gleam of being. Is this an empty shell driven only by instinct? Antenna wave searching perhaps my reflection? The creature cannot possibly know what a human face is. The moth cannot understand the import of what it sees, senses through this transparent briefly lit barrier, yet who cannot help but wonder?