The Dance of the Firefly Fleet

A shimmer stirs in the velvet night,

a candle’s soul adrift in flight,

wandering gently through twilight’s sigh,

borne by breezes whispering by.

Then, as if stars fell to the earth,

a thousand flickers spring to birth—

golden sparks from meadow’s seam,

stitching dreams through every gleam.

Don’t blink, don’t turn away too fast,

their glow is brief, it will not last.

Like sailors drifting on moon’s glass tide,

they sail with joy, no need to hide.

Not warships bold nor proud parade,

but glowing wings in peace arrayed.

Their hums, like songs the silence keeps,

float gently over shadowed deeps.

Some stay nestled in forest hush,

on mossy logs or leaves in brush.

A few fly low, some climb on high,

but none let starlight pass them by.

Though wings could take them far and wide,

they often choose the field’s soft side.

Above the brook and trees they go,

leaving trails of silent glow.

As fox is sly and snail is slow,

as deer retreat where flowers grow,

the wild things know, when dusk is sweet—

returns the fleet with glowing feet.

In summer’s breath, so damp, so near,

they fill the night with tiny cheer.

And while the stars may gently sleep,

the fireflies rise, and softly sweep.