the chameleon girl did not notice
the gentle fluttering, a frantic but effective movement,
of the dusty brown moth eyeing her soup
she did not notice its eventual fall
she did not notice as the soup coated its wings
the powdered surface lost its micro scales
to the thick and unforgiving soup
she scooped up another spoonful
she did notice the half dead moth now
but she couldn’t save it, and that’s it.