Sunrise past, the last of the night-time moths are fluttering up under the leaves. A sound like the forest drawing a breath.

Overcast and cool. A small, strikingly orange and black moth flutters around the house, and I try unsuccessfully to catch it in my hand.

Like a maple key out of season, but far lighter, it spirals ever so slowly down onto the porch floor: a small white moth’s hind wing.