Right outside the back door a Plume Moth is gently perched on the siding. Unique, tiny, and intriguing, but out of context. “It’s December. De.cem.ber.” I mumble out loud to remind myself, and possibly the moth, before turning to stand barefoot on the deck with significant bed-head and a cup of coffee. The dog stands in the soggy yard nosing no breeze, seeing no squirrels, and listening to the sound of leaves brownly settling into a denser and denser layer in wide patches on the grass. Her ears perk and radar toward the sound of the earth alive and dying beneath her paws. “We’re definitely wiping your feet before you come inside, dopey,” I tell her. She looks brightly at me, wags once, and bolts from her place toward the porch.