along the path between morning practice and the dining hall a bird lifts, leaving the moth she was beginning to breakfast on upon the path before me. the size of my palm, a dozen shades of brown, with beautiful eye-circles in the middle of his back, the moth flops and flaps, but cannot fly. i pause, witnessing a small pinch in my peace. reverberation of beauty and sadness. i consider ending his suffering but cannnot bring myself to place my foot upon his fat furryfeathery body and his dignity. he will find his own death. we keep company for a while and then i move along.
over a silent breakfast on the grass behind the dining hall i wonder what suffering feels like to a moth.
on the path again an hour later i find scattered mothwings. a plop of bird excrement. ants breakfasting on the nub-ends of the wings where a bit of moth-meat must remain. i consider, pick up a wing, gently shake off the ants, and sit down on the nearby bench where i like to write, a single mothwing at my side to write this, for all of us.