The November moon was high overhead, making the treetops and field look silver. I went out to see the moon glow on my skin and found a moth struggling to build a fire at the edge of the forest.
“I could light that for you,” I said. “I’m good at it.”
The moth paused for a moment, contemplating. Her antennae quivered, as if there were a breeze.
“Yes, that would be fine,” she said. “Actually, it would be quite good of you.”
“So, where are you off to,” I asked.
“I’m searching. I’m called to search for the thing I am missing. There is a shadow inside of me, a cool empty place.” She paused and looked over my head.
“I see,” I said, picking up the smooth, dry twigs. Rubbing them together, I felt warmth radiating from the friction.
“Why do you ask?” said Moth.
“I wondered how we both happened to be in this place, as if we were here to meet.”
“That could be. Perhaps,” Moth said. “And you? You are here for a purpose?”
“I’m consumed with too much heat,” I said. “I came to cool my face under the moon. It was here a moment ago, but I don’t see it now.”
“Nor I,” she said, rubbing her spindly legs together, “Nor I.”
I slid the twigs back and forth. Sparks glinted off, cascading onto the mound of straw on the ground.
“Oh my,” Moth said.
Soon the straw was ablaze and I tossed the twigs onto the top, watching the bark glow and curl back, exposing the tender innards to the fire. I turned away to gather more twigs. When I turned back, Moth was gone and the fire was larger, like a passion recently kindled.
