I’ve had pretty good luck this year with some basil plants that I’ve been growing in pots outside my door. I started the seeds indoors way back in the spring and didn’t hold out much hope at first for the spindly wisps of green that, at that point, hardly qualified as seedlings. Those who garden or otherwise grow things know that there is a certain point in the development of a particular plant when it becomes obvious that it will indeed make it. A crucial moment has finally been reached and has passed, and it’s all downhill from there.

Up until that point, it was pretty much touch-and-go with the two healthy seedlings I’d managed to produce, as there didn’t seem to be much plant tissue there to work with at all. But nature being nature, some small bit of energy developed either in the soil or from deep within the plant itself to push it toward optimum growth. That’s what happened with this basil, the result of which are two robust and sturdy plants which have provided me all summer long with tender sweet leaves for my various culinary endeavors.

It was with great delight that I discovered recently that basil stems can be rooted to produce more plants. As my plants have been sending up new growth, I’ve kept them trimmed so they don’t go to seed and flower, and I’ve been keeping the cuttings in a glass of water inside. From there, I am able to easily snip a few leaves to add to a stir-fry or a salad, and I feel pretty proud of myself in the bargain for having produced such plants when, in the past, I almost always encountered failure where most herbs were concerned.

The result is that I now have several small pots of basil growing on the windowsill, which means that I’ll have some to harvest all winter long. This is much more preferable to bringing plants inside and watching them wilt and die from the shock of a different environment. These little plants have not experienced that, thus they are thriving in their spot in the sun.

About a week ago, I went over to my little glass of cuttings with the intention of refreshing its water and noticed something that seemed to be out of place hiding beneath one of the leaves. I immediately deduced that it wasn’t part of the plant, for it was a bright yellow flecked with dark brown spots. As it turns out, a small yellow butterfly, or so I thought at the time, had hitched a ride on one of the basil cuttings, and had been hiding there for several days. Or maybe it snuck inside when I wasn’t looking. When I tugged on it, it flew the short distance from the glass to the edge of my cutting board, and stayed there.

After a few moments, I decided the best thing I could do for this little creature was to return it to its natural environment, so I cupped it gently in my hands and released it outside. It fluttered about for a moment before landing in the dewy grass, and it was then that I realized that, by taking hold of it by its wings, I might have affected its ability to fly. But I did not know exactly why at the time.

After quite a bit of research, I was able to identify the little visitor as not a butterfly but a False Crocus Geometer Moth (Xanthotype urticaria). And once I’d uploaded the photos I took of it, I saw beyond a shadow of a doubt that, by briefly picking it up, I had indeed rubbed some of the dust off the wings on its left side, which was probably why it ended up on the ground right after takeoff. But from what I was able to gather from Boston University’s website, the moth may simply have had to adjust its flight pattern after our encounter.

What we generally perceive as dust on a moth’s wings are actually small scales made up of microsopic hairs. The scales not only help the moth fly, but they also act as light refractors which help to determine its coloring.

They may also play a role in helping a moth free itself from a spider’s web by releasing the web’s grip on the scales rather than on the wings themselves. Like butterflies, many moths are able to camouflage themselves against a particular background, which makes them less detectable by predators.

As I busied myself later with other things, I couldn’t help but wonder about the little moth that had graced my kitchen with its presence that day. Had I not found and gotten very curious about it, I might never have learned about the complexity of design that is a moth’s body. I realized once again just how specialized most of life is and how nature has endowed most living things with capacities that might not be obvious at first glance. This is where taking a closer look very often makes all the difference.

— Rachel Lovejoy, a freelance writer living in Saco who enjoys sharing her observations of the natural world with others, can be reached via email at rachell1950@hotmail.com.