An absolutely exquisite read concerning the apocalyptic plight of the Australian Bogon moth.
And by extension, of us all.

This is a long-form read, so take your time.
You also have the option of listening the author narrate the story if you would prefer.
Here is a taster:

If the moths’ light-seeking caused disruption in the darkness, their urge to seek shelter when the dawn broke made them a more invidious presence yet. So many of their oily bodies were crushed on train tracks that slowdowns were mandated to stop locomotives slipping from the rails. They jammed the circuitry of elevators, spoiled gatherings. At a garden party at Government House in the inland capital of Canberra, every iced cake was seen to be decorated with moths. The moths entered people’s houses. They crept behind upright pianos, into radio sets, betwixt the slats of venetian blinds. They got between the mattress and bedsheets, and huddled in the pockets of dress suits. In kitchens, gutted fish were found to have bellyfuls of moths. If a light was switched off, hundreds of tiny arrow shapes might fan out from beneath paintings hung on the wall. One year, churchgoers counted eighty thousand moths on the windows of Saint Thomas’s prayerhouse in North Sydney. Services were canceled for seven days, the building sealed while the moths congregated under the eaves. People reached for words like visitation, marvel. The less-enraptured said: plague.

Rebecca Giggs.

Link to the full essay: Noiseless Messengers.

Photo credit: unknown.