I sit on green grass, staring up at the sky. My friend lies with her head on my lap, looking at me, the road, everything. I am thinking and watching.  The fireworks begin, bright bursts explode out words, illuminating the almost dark sky. I watch, captivated, but attention not quite focused on the explosions in the sky. I wonder why my attention isn’t kept by the fireworks. As they continue, I start to notice. After they have exploded, and all the light from them is gone from the sky, a dark shape, made of smoke, can be seen.  As I continue to study the shapes, I realize that they are birds. Smoke birds, flapping and fading into the everlasting night. I see smoke-crows flap their black wings and fly across the sky. Each one is different and yet they are all the same somehow, as if they come from the same firework den. They linger, floating towards us, before disappearing into memory. As the show comes to an end, the finale has so many fireworks that the smoke birds meld together and flap and fade from sight. The lights in the field flick on and I’m left still wondering.