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September 2008, vol 4 no 3

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Doris Heitmeyer



Luna

Out of the dark
into the dark
moths at the screen.

"A Luna moth!" I exclaimed. "They're very rare." It was big, a cool luminous green, and perfect. And it was beating at our window screen like an ordinary Sphinx.

My father grabbed a can of bug spray, aimed at the window, and drenched the moth with deadly oil. It fell away into the darkness. In trying to capture it, he had ruined it as a specimen.

"Oh, Daddy," I wailed, my heart broken. But he had already dashed out with a flashlight to retrieve it. Being a girl, I couldn't have killed it, even for a specimen. And I knew--he had done it--for me.

Late-rising moon
starkly illuminating
all it shines on.

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