Watering the garden in the evening raises moths, blind-beating away from the hose's impudent spray.
The heat has called up ants, too. Bloated and black, they have blundered up all day on vile and sticky wings or crawled in futile circles on the baking pavements. The moths are lovely; made of dust, they are the ghosts of butterflies. The ants I have no love for, no love at all.
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