Dara Egan thought this as a moth. Later, contemplating how a moth could think in words at all, she would have plenty to ponder about the nature of mind and consciousness. At the moment, though, her attention flittered, attentive to air currents of molecular scents, semibreves of fragrance from the thick of things.

Pollens wafting over the moth’s antennae contoured space with an olfactory map of the terrain. The evil stink of spiders seeping from the fretwork of grasses repelled her. She beveled wings to glide higher, where exhausted clouds crawled away from daybreak...  [MORE]