FIREFLIES

New moon.

The world was dark when Helen and I crunched down the gravel drive home from our weekly Scrabble match at Grammy's last night. (The young'n walloped us, both games.)

Frogs scree!-d at the pond, their shrill songs carrying over the pasture. The evening air, cool and soft, was thick with honeysuckle and the heavy sweetness of mock orange.

Out on the highway, no traffic. I guess everyone was home, watching the evening news or putting away dishes or finishing homework, or they had already clocked in at Walmart for the night shift.

The hayfield is a magical place on a mild, moonless night.

A thousand-thousand stars, fallen from a limitless black sky, come alive and dance above the tops of the grasses.

"Here!"

"Here!"

"Here!"

They call to one another joyfully, ecstatically.

"Dance!"

"Dance!"

"Dance!"

And I am a child again, surrounded by fairies, walking in the darkness through a symphony of light.