Falling

away from summer on the Gardeners' Market last flowers

and into the dormant season of long nights, short days, and still air, during which I shall wait, and wait, and wait for winged ones to emerge from overwintering.





Then, perhaps, I shall see another tiger moth, a living one.




Until then, I shall console myself with this one, proboscis curled, desiccated, dead on a friend's doorstep,

but beautiful, even still.