The night is still and dark but for the circle of light on the page of the open book. A moth hovers while I read under the small lamp. For a moment, it perches on my hand, a delicate tawny yellow, like burnished gold. In another moment it is gone. Next morning, just at dawn, the first rays of sunlight dance along the edge of the window curtain. The flickering light crosses the spot where I was reading last night, and for a moment the light touches my hand. The light is a delicate tawny yellow, like burnished gold.
journal of reflections by the resident of the Hermitary