fireflies

I opened the door to my parent’s back deck last night and was hit with the balmy night air.  Summer nights in Kentucky are breathtaking.  Warm air, a cool breeze, and the sweet smell of Kentucky summertime filled my nostrils, and my anger with the dog (for disappearing into the expansive yard after midnight and refusing the return) evaporated.  After a few minutes of whisper yelling (in attempt to demand Darla’s return without waking up the whole neighborhood), I took a deep breath and enjoyed the beauty of the night.

The trees rustled in the wind, and when I looked down the whole treeline was sparkling.  A flash of green here, then there, each one fading as quickly as it appeared, giving the illusion of a sparkling green forest.

The fireflies.

When I was a kid, my brother’s and I spent countless hours at dusk running around with cupped hands held high in the air in pursuit of the lightning bugs.  Some nights we let them go, and others we packed them into a mason jar for a natural nightlight.

They were a magical part of my childhood, and will always remind me of warm summer nights, and mosquito bites.

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