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  • Writer's pictureSam Baker



You might see an angel anytime

and anywhere. Of course you have

to open your eyes to a kind of

second level, but it’s not really

hard. The whole business of

what’s reality and what isn’t has

never been solved and probably

never will be. So I don’t care to

be too definite about anything.

I have a lot of edges called Perhaps

and almost nothing you can call

Certainty. For myself, but not

for other people. That’s a place

you just can’t get into, not

entirely anyway, other people’s


I’ll just leave you with this.

I don’t care how many angels can

dance on the head of a pin. It’s

enough to know that for some people

they exist, and that they dance.

-Mary Oliver


I've never really looked at a moth. I think they are odd furry things with beauituful swept wings and oversized eyes. Like goggles. As if they are World War One aviators needing eye protection (and leather hats). This moth rests on some sort of woven thing. Thready. A placemat or table protector. I dont know what its role is. It looks made by hand. An anonymous hand more than likely. A per hour hand. Or a per piece hand. A hand far away from where I am. In a different time. Or maybe not so long ago given the global economy.

It could be something made for a few cents an hour in a place I likely have never been, likely will not go, and likely may not of even heard of. Or it could have been made in Fort Worth. One just does not know.

The moth and the thready thing are small. Mostly things I would not normally notice. But today, and I don't know why, they appear big. Huge. Outlandish. Something from the small world made big.

All of a sudden. They appear. They manifest.

All of a sudden.


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