Prejudice deprives me of my due: denizen of the cloth herald of death robber of souls seduced by flames that is all you know of me. Oh, and that I am ugly and hairy. Even those two who just spied me sucking from honeysuckle tubes … “What is it?” they ask. “See how it hovers, its wings beating up a breeze? It must be a hummingbird,” they insist. But I am not and I am no less for that. Prejudice deprives me of my due. I am often overlooked – the stubby brown cousin to monarchs and mariposas – even in death, with radiant wings pinned, they maintain a mounted beauty. And unlike my luminous sister Luna, I fly by day and I am drawn to nectar, not the flame – honeycomb more likely the death of me than the romantic sputter and hiss of candlelight. I am not the social butterfly, the healing Band-Aid, or the eyelash kiss. I am not the swimming stroke, the yoga pose, or even the embroidery stitch. I am the hawk moth, carrier of your dreams. I fly at dizzying rates of speed, the soulful guardian of eternity.