Too many moths to feed.

I had forgotten about the moths.  They came unexpectedly last year, too.  During a couple of very warm days in December, moths — hundreds of them — appeared on the windows. 

Moths, it would seem, have a precarious enough existence in the summer months.  There are bats roaming the skies like stealth aircraft.  There are zappers which imitate the light they seek, only to lure them to a painful death — cutting short their already unimaginably short lives. 

But to be birthed in December?  For what purpose?  Simply to die?

I arrived home late last night.  When I got to the porch, the light was covered with moths.  For a brief period of time, they had want they wanted:  light and warmth.  I remembered having heard the weather forecast on the radio on the ride home.  Although it was then relatively warm, in the mid-forties, the temperature was supposed to drop into the twenties.

I watched them for a short time.  There was little movement.  Each tiny wing was a little miracle, veined as delicately as leaf and yet capable of flight.

I left the porch light on, for whatever that was worth.  If they were going to see through a glass darkly for their brief time on this earth, let them at least be warm.

Upon awakening this morning, I had a lingering thought like I had left one of the cats outside.  (A relatively common occurrence in the summer.)  But both were present and accounted for at their food bowls. 

And then, I remembered:  oh yeah.  The moths.

I opened the porch door.  The weather forecast was correct:  The brief flirtation with temperatures in the 50s was over;  the bleak mid-winter chill was back in the air.

Most of the moths were gone.  To where?

I don’t have a clue.  I  place this in my mental file of of things “seen through a glass, darkly.”

But I do know this:

December is the month for strange and mysterious births.