It landed on the porch lamp at half past ten. I was already outside.
22:14 — Moth arrives. Brown. Medium. The wing pattern is unremarkable, which is, in my view, the best pattern a moth can have. It does not flap. It contemplates. I keep my distance, as is proper.
22:31 — The moth has not moved. The porch lamp is humming. I am humming, in spirit. The Bald Man comes out, sees me at my post, and sits down on the step beside me without a word. He puts a hand on my back. We watch the moth together. This is, I should say, our finest mode of communication.
22:47 — The moth flies off in a manner I can only describe as deliberate. I did not bark. I never bark. I merely watched, and I nodded, slowly, in the way one nods when something significant has occurred which one has agreed not to discuss.
The Bald Man went back inside. He left the porch light on for me. Report concludes. The moth was, on balance, fine.