I follow my antennae; I am filled with the scent of August flowers, honeysuckle the densest scent, thick. Evening primroses phosphoresce as dusk falls, sending out a sharper scent. Heady stuff on a foggy, humid night. And then, and then … the scent of the other, it drifts from miles. The wings flutter, shift the air, with powder touches. * I follow the sound, the bouncing back of my sound. Fluid flutter and zig zag under the trees over the open space. * The moth hears and plummets.
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