I am re-reading Rebecca Solnit’s book, The Faraway Nearby. I have listened to the audio book so many times that when I read it, the voice in my head is not my own.
I buy the book so I can read the pages alongside the text that runs across the bottom of each page. In the audio book, she reads this text at the end of the book - all together. It was not written to be read like this. It has no place in the sequence of chapters, it was written to travel alongside all of them.
Moths drink the tears of sleeping birds.
That moths drink the tears of sleeping birds is a template for many things; it is a container of the familiar made strange, of sorrow turned into sustenance, of the myriad stories the natural world provides that are as uncannily resonant as any myth.