In someone’s garden, a moth sat on the bark of a tree, and waited for the moon to clear the next roof.
It was nervous, which was unusual for a moth, and angry, which was even moreso. Something was wrong. More complicated than it should be.
When the moon illuminated the tree and the moth, turning brown wings grey, the moth grew. It shifted some feet to a crack in the bark to take its growing weight.
The emotions became clearer, and thoughts joined them. It’s a trap. It looks like a moon and its a trap.
The moth let go, and fell on just one pair of knees. Its middle limbs were almost gone, its wings small in relation to its body and useless. It stretched, and grew, straightening up, using the tree to prop itself up.
It peered at the house, cautiously, not wanting to be seen until it had grown to its full shape.
A blueish lamp hung on the porch, its light attracting night-flying insects, killing them when they touched it. Humans. They were not even there, they just hung it there to kill, kill, kill.
The moth’s hand, covered in fine, grey-brown fuzz, but big and square and strong, flexed slightly on the bark. I can tear the thing down.
The moth grinned, a feral expression that just seemed to come with the teeth. It ran its short tongue over them. They might tear flesh, if the lamp-setters came out.