Firefly

Fireflies!

Out this evening, all over the yard. I tried to catch them but gave up halfway through; they didn't want to flare in my hands. So I made a cup of tea and sat on the porch to admire them, instead.

At least, that was the plan. Although I always go into it with a pure heart and good intentions, I am not good at peacefully contemplating nature. I sit for three minutes admiring flickering fireflies or glorious sunset or misty waterfall, and from that beatific window my mind flies forth to uplifting heights like:

"If only Jane Eyre lived in a steampunk world, she could be an investigative reporter who traveled by hot air balloon. Possibly a hot air balloon operated by Rochester the angsty aeronaut. Except he ought to be her editor. Could he be both?"

I have a longstanding affinity for fireflies. Witness: a poem I wrote in high school -

Firefly

Flash, flicker, fade,
Firefly on promenade

Against the dark twists and turns
falling star crashes and burns -

except - it never crashed;
it flies again; another flash.

I got sixth place in Little Bitty Poetry Competition at Shadow Poetry. This was the height of my youthful literary achievement.