The Fate of Winter Moths
“the fate of winter moths”
sitting on the stoop, concrete sodden with
the chill of late winter. the air
acquires a coolness like your first breath
after confessional. the Christmas lights
illuminate the porch in a motley of whites
and oranges. the tangerine glow casting
warmth while the sun is taking his smoke
break. Two sounds permeate the crisp air
rising up to my ears like a swan through
inky lake water: the languid boughs
sighing in the wind, scraping their emaciated
limbs together in contemplation and the
fatal buzz of my neighbor’s bug zapper.
It stands watch like a plum King’s Guard,
never resting in his duty; an amethyst firebrand.
The absence of the mosquito’s persistent drone
is chilling, and its deafening vacancy amplifies the
cruel cut of the bug zapper.
In this quiet cacophony
I think that letting moths fall prey to an
undeserved, mauve, electric death is the cruelest
thing I’ve ever known.
I creep back up the
steps and cast a wary
look into my neighbor’s
grimey window and am
shocked to see them
sleeping peacefully.
Copyright © Corey Bryan | Year Posted 2023
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