Flames are lit.
She emerges from the shadows
A paper harbinger of doom.
The tiny moth. The one that you could clap into dust.
She flutters erratically, taunting the spiders and barn cats.
Threatening my sanity as she unknowingly swoops past.
There is no reason to fear her, but she carries an air about her.
It is as heavy as the death toll of a churchyard bell.
Her congregation joins in the flight and attempt to survive another evening.
And as the sun rises, their bodies are found on the ground.
Fallen with exhaustion, they will become paper confetti with the next gentle breeze.
She, however, the most unique moth of the night, slumbers beneath the dimmed light.
A sleeping beauty who will rise to haunt again.
Bridget Herbig 