I Five a.m., the moth shows up again: Black triangle. Guitar pick. Black fleck on the sill, the arrow saying look, here it is, the window, black looking glass, see your future, your past. Little oracle? Last time it pointed out the field of white flowers on the ceiling, but I didn’t see them— just my daughter trying to flick it with the broom. Before that she said I saw it—I don’t recall where now, I’d only been half listening. In the deluge of daily words, I thought the moth biography is not need-to-know— but felt the pull of her telling— she wanted to narrate this little impossibility. She is nearing twelve, opening to metaphor, to omens. Once, at the urgent care, one fluttered up
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