Moonlit Wings

It was midnight on the night before Midsummer’s Eve. The rain had stopped hours ago, leaving a misty fog. It shimmered a death-pale silver in the full moonlight. Not a cricket called, no owl hooted; it was silent all around.1

He stood there, a mysterious presence about him. The atmosphere of his surroundings had something to do with it, perhaps; perhaps it was the set of black butterfly-like wings protruding from his slender, bare back. He was as silent as the meadow he stood in. His sapphire eye watched the moon intently. The other eye was hidden by the shadows dancing across his face. A veil of hair, silver as the fog, cascaded over his shoulders, but not much farther. The tattoo around his visible eye added a dark feel to his slightly feminine face.2

He lifted his head to the sky, his eyes shut, a small playing on his lips. The moon mystified him in a way he couldn’t comprehend. He adored its radiance, felt strengthened by it. The full moon was a special time for him. Bathing in it made him feel invincible.3

A breeze rustled the meadow, causing the grass and nearby trees to whisper to him. The wind tugged on his hair, like a child playing with the pale strands. He laughed to himself, and gracefully turned into the wind. His mane became a silver banner, streaming behind him proudly. He reached for the moon, the light exposing more dark, runic tattooing on his arms and chest. Freedom surged through his very veins. He laughed out loud, a tinkling, merry sound. His wings began to flutter, and he left the ground. Exhilaration flooded him as he circled the meadow, breathing in mist.4

On a whim, he descended, dropping onto his stomach the moment he landed. Lying there, he watched the dewdrops on the grass, searched for nightcrawlers, inhaled the bittersweet scent of dew and grass and earth. He felt connected to the world, its heartbeat echoing in his soul.5

Somewhere in the distance, a single cricket called. He smiled in reply. The mist would be clearing soon, he knew. All threat of rain was departing, and the nightlife was resuming its song. His pointed ears perked as he picked out the sounds of other crickets, and even a few locusts, joining the first in harmony.6

He sat up, and stretched his lithe body. He would leave with the mist, he decided. It was already visibly dissipating. A moth, struggling with its not quite dried wings, fluttered around his face. He raised a hand, and it gratefully perched on his outstretched finger. He cautiously moved his passenger to his shoulder.7

Slowly, wary of his cargo, he stood. Then, with one last farewell to the moon, he glided toward the forest and melted into the shadows.8

Moments later, a silver and black moth appeared from those same trees, its wings freshly dried. It circled the meadow a few times before rising toward the moon, vanishing into the night.