"A Moth the hue of this..."
I was at a bonfire gathering a few nights ago where I overheard two friends talking about seeing Luna moths. A third person described eagerly anticipating seeing one this year, and shared his rationale that differences in elevation and temperature between where they've already been sighted and his yard would soon bring the glorious American Moon Moth, another name for the Luna, into view for him.
I stood agape at the outdoor blaze. I've never seen a Luna moth. Did not appreciate that they are here in our region. Felt like I've been missing out on a secret.
If you know the Luna, you'll understand why it is a treasured nighttime sighting in June and July here in New York State. It's a giant lime green moth with a violet edge and false eyes on its wings in what can only be described as an ambiguous, moonlight color.
Although sightings are considered special—and rightly so due to its cool beauty—the Luna moth has a wide habitat across the Eastern-to-Midwest United States, as well as Canada. It loves hickory and birch leaves, along with a number of other trees such as sweet gum, persimmon, red maple, white oak, black cherry, willow, American chestnut and even smooth sumac. That is, it loves those leaves in its immature, caterpillar stages. Adults hatch with no mouth parts, and live about a week, only to mate—a fleeting ode to desire, and survival. The Luna is very attracted to light at night, which brings it into view around houses.
While I'm now hoping to catch sight of a Luna before they all die off this season, I'm reminded of "moth time" every summer.
The moment every July that brings moths in abundance. It varies in timing, but I notice the way my nighttime reading is affected by the insistence of the moths for several weeks. They fling their pithy bodies at the window screens, some sounding as hefty as small rodents. Then a cohort of the smaller-sized outdoor fleet forces its way inside, finding gaps around screens and storm windows, desperate for the light.
Some that come inside are spotted, others are pale and nearly translucent. Some have velvety full bodies, and some seem more intent on seeking the warmth of human flesh than that of the bulb in the bedside lamp. I've seen all shapes and kinds, if not colors. This week, I noticed one with unusual antennae, as though a white-tailed deer left its genetic imprint in the form of its ears, scaled to an insect.
I'd have to leave a window open to attract a Luna, or a door. Even then I might not succeed. The female Luna begins releasing pheromone to attract its mate at approximately 10:30 p.m., precisely the time I'm indoors defending against the onslaught of smaller fliers and attempting to read a book.
Moth time in July reminds me of environmental writer Michael McCarthy's recounting of his experience as a child in England in the 1950s.
And if the butterflies filled the summer days, the moths filled the summer nights, and sometimes the moths were in such numbers that they would pack a car’s headlight beams like snowflakes in a blizzard, there would be a veritable snowstorm of moths, and at the end of your journey you would have to wash your windscreen, you would have to sponge away the astounding richness of life.
McCarthy's intention is twofold: one, in making the point that the natural world brings, among other things, an exquisiteness, a joy in certain moments that is essential to our humanity. And two, in making the additional point that the natural world is becoming so altered by the recklessness of human activity that not only the experiences it offers us are diminishing, so, too, are we.
Another time I'll think more about McCarthy's writing and the philosophical turn he takes that gets us into different territory than the pragmatics or the politics of environmentalism.
For now, I'm excited to know about the Luna moth, and be tuned to the possibility of seeing one. But I'm equally excited to be reminded of the "astounding richness of life" in the form of a seasonal wave of moths—even if they mostly come in white, brown and beige.
