Brown moth

It was waiting on a bedroom wall. A Navajo cloth, gently.

It walks up a fold and rests. Big black eyes, soft brown speckled wings.

Slowly carry it out of the room, across bamboo floor mats toward night, into an open garden under half moon, shadowed morning glories, papayas trimmed in darkness.

The moth feels this air, a sound of humming night below the surface, adjusts its antenna and lifts off into a shadow, silent wing flight free.

Metta.