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Tattered wings

I (tried) to rescue a moth today.

It had managed to get itself stuck between the pavers and a brick wall.

I noticed because I could hear this noise while I wrote. A flap flap flap flap flap flap flap flap … silence … then flap flap flap flap flap flap flap flap flap. I had to go searching.

When I finally found the source of the tiny noise, a noise seemingly only I could hear. (My roomy thought I had finally lost my last marble)

I was saddened by what I saw.

It had been a big moth. Black and grey and white. Once it may have had wings to rival some butterflies. But in its night-long struggle to get out, its wings were only tatters. Torn. Worn down. All the scaley pixie dust covering from them, gone.

I still rescued it, picking it out of its prison and holding its fluttering, panicked body in my hands.

I still put it in the garden. Bit I knew it was as good as spider food.

In all its efforts to get free, its furious flapping to save itself was what ultimately caused its death.

If it had simply waited and then walked out of the hole, it would still have its wings intact.

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