Winter Moths

Discombobulated, the winter moths
fall from the overarching trees
and are caught in my headlights
on the rough white road to the Castellare.
They look like tipsy snowflakes
swarming for a celebration
on the eve of disaster.
Unlike bees that head in concert
toward a single destination,
each moth teeters on its own
peculiar way, knocked dizzy
on occasion by some other
batting wings, and so it seems
they’re busy going nowhere in a flurry.
Same road, next morning,
no snowflakes in the air,
no moth wings on the ground.
Then, in the icy night,
the moths are coming down again,
tumbling in my headlights.
How they survive the cold to fly
another night, I don’t know.
Science has an explanation
for this wintry resurrection,
I feel sure, but I prefer
wondering.