If I find a bug in the house, my immediate response is to catch it and set it free outside, however this moth made no attempt to fly away. I was careful not to touch her delicate wings, so I concluded that she was nearing the end of her life. I sat with her for awhile, watching her struggling to stay up and thought about a Sylvia Plath poem about finding a dying moth. The event made me thing about life and the grace the moth had in accepting her inevitable death.