The stars are reflected in the grass tonight,
as fireflies refuse to fly anymore.
They lay about in the thick brush,
a flickering blanket answering the twinkle
from on high.
Do they act like this on long summer evenings?
How could they?
Kids would scoop them up by the million!
Jar them, squish them,
write their initials with glowing
firefly goop on their arms.
Boy kids chasing girl kids squealing
with glossy boogers of firefly goop.
No, they wouldn't lay about like this
in the summer.
But now they seem tired, these flies.
These non-flies. These fire layabouts.
It's September after all.
Dark at eight thirty,
kids busy with their homework,
staring at their screens.
It's safe to lay in the weeds,
done with the darting and flying
exerting minimum effort.
If a firefly's flicker is meant
To draw a mate,
these lazy bums should
go home alone.
© TDR - 2020
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