The Scenes Before Us

Done with the motion of the evening,
Our eyes settle.
Not glazed, nor, tired.
Eager. For the spark to pull us toward the far corners of the woods.
To flash before us, a picky portion of the tree that lies behind it.

Yet the grain of the wood is more than enough. For with its tiny body, the firefly has sent out a light that with our eyes,
Trained and routine to the ways of the world, are lucky enough to pick up among the black of the sky.
The roamings within the forest hold their breath. A silence falls over us, both fur and flesh, of knowing.
That when our eyes drift back to the scenes before us, they are gone for the night.
And with this, we allow ourselves,

Their glow, their presence, and the luck of a firefly.