Colorado Springs loves to hate miller moths. Every few years, when the fluttering migration that passes through in late May is particularly hearty, the town unites in a collective gripe about how the little moths are gumming up their windows and attacking TV screens.
I've never joined the city-wide harrumph. I actually like the little guys. They don't bite. They don't sting. They don't eat clothing. If you're going to have a plague of something, I figure it might as well be millers.
Now, here's the cool part. After the swarm comes through in May, the moths disperse to the mountains, where they live their wild moth life, fluttering through the dark, getting attacked by owls and spiders and all that lurks in the night. And at the end of summer, the ones that survive -- and there aren't many -- pass back through the city on their way to lay eggs on the prairie.
Or so I had heard, but I'd never seen one. Then, yesterday, I was sitting on my front porch when a miller flew right into my head. It bumped around a bit, then landed on my window sill. Its wings were as tattered as an alley cat's ears. It looked like it could barely fly. But here it was, back from the mountains, and not far from its birthplace on the eastern plains.
Even if you don't like millers, you have to admire this moth's moxie.