The Firefly Fleet

A flickering light,

a humble candle against the night sky,

travels in a pattern all its own, burning bright,

carried weightlessly on a soft breeze whispering by.

Like a tapestry of stars emerges thousands of blinking fireflies,

fiery embers rising from the tall grasses and cold ground.

Don't look away, don't avert your eyes,

don't let their brilliance slip into the dark, never to be found.

They are sailors on a moonlit sea,

their wings the sails, their buzzing a shanty of hope.

Not an armada, but a fleet, shining with glee,

tiny lanterns like lighthouses gracing each grassy slope.

Not every bug braves the open air,

content to drift along a rotting log or traverse the foliage of a tree,

there are some on patrol, some cautious, even scared,

darting in and out of the underbrush, guarded, but free.

Their wings could carry them for miles,

though most favor the comfort and quiet of a single lush meadow.

Sailing o'er the peaceful tree-line and brooks, there is laughter and smiles

as the fireflies chatter and flit about, nary a woe.

As certain as the fox is sly,

as sure as the snail is slow,

as undeniable as the deer is shy,

every creature, large or small, knows:

In the damp summer heat,

when dusk lasts forever,

shines the magnificent firefly fleet,

brighter than ever.