On a steamy late afternoon,
a moth flutters
between inner and outer sash.
Each surge of fury
is met by a pane of glass.
The sun is setting
and it has tracked the waning light
to a nearby house.
It doesn’t think to drop down
to the opening
but, in its panic,
tracks higher,
up into the old, frayed rope
that amounts to
the window’s mechanism.
Dull brown wings
fan gold
in the shimmering light.
Before it dies,
it is almost a butterfly.