“We must give it a funeral.”
They’re pleased to have found a beautiful dead thing, to indulge their tender hearts and flare for drama. They are composing a dirge—I hear their little voices—while I have my coffee before heading out to the estuary—likely moth’s send-off will be on water.
Unfortunately for me, it’s rainy, but I brought a rain poncho. You never know when you’ll have to attend (officiate, even) an outdoor insect funeral.
I’m in Duluth for an over-(last)night—staying by the St Louis River that flows into the Great Lake Superior. The girlettes found the dead moth yesterday, as big as their head. I showed it to the motel owner, who recoiled. “Ew, no!”
Looked it up instead. It’s a white-lined sphinx moth—pink inner wings clinch id—so big it can be mistaken for a hummingbird I read. Looks exotic, but is common.
The girlettes object. “There’s only one!”
Quite right. And it is no more. Its passing shall be noted with grief and appreciation.
Bring on the funeral rites. Alas, too wet for a flaming barge.
