Wing-dust in the Fragrance
The air is thick and hot,like a slow, fragrant current.In the heavy aroma of marsh Labrador teaand the salty breath of seaweed,a quiet, invisible motion begins.Shadows detach from the hot bark of the tree trunksas the night moths open their wings.
They dance over the calm of the lake,circling water lilies like small ghosts.Hawk moths pierce soft holes into the air,their wings a mere rapid vibrationamong the dried sand couch-grass.On the sand of the seashore, where wild resin scents the air,geometer moths rise into the sky as a thousand-headed cloud.
This is their only, burning moment.The fine, silvery dust of the moths' wingsmingles with the scent of salty air and sweet marsh-water.They dance without a sound, without a rush,in a tropical night that is too warm to die,too fragrant to stand still.





