A Delusional Moth

You are a moth. The night has not decided to leave itself yet. The day lies in broken pieces across the grass. Too bright. Too sharp. You are trying to find the rounded edges, hum of the day gnawed by edges. You find a tree, a familiar one. It has dropped its fruit. Soft. Open. Already claimed by flies. The fruit is fat with surrender. It draws the small world to it. You like the flies. They move like tiny thoughts that never finish thinking. They see you and scatter. Not in fear, in interruption. Then they return again to form words. Their bodies pressing meaning into the ground. Letters made of wing-beat. Words made of repetition. The earth becomes a page that will not stay still. You try to read it. But your eyes are too tender for daylight logic. The words buzz instead. They refuse to settle. They blur and hum. You close your eyes. Now the words do not go away but multiply. They swarm softly inside you. Green, drifting, endless. They become horses. They circle you gently, like memory learning how to move. And you, small moth, mistake it for understanding. You think the world has chosen you as its only fruit.