Moths
Small moths stir
in the darkness.
I feel their
wings brush my
face, my hands,
remembering the cry
of something unseen.
It is windy
again this morning.
* * *
“Moths” first appeared here in July 2015.
O at the Edges
Musings on poetry, language, perception, numbers, food, and anything else that slips through the cracks.
O at the Edges 
I love this:
“remembering the cry
of something unseen.”
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Thanks, Tre. That was a fairly common occurrence at my rural property!
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You’re most welcome.
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Perfect.
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Thank you, Craig!
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Keep it alive.
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Yes!
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