In The South

 

The fireflies float up the treeline.

But we call them lightning bugs here.

They glimmer as they soar high, seeking

the final warmth of the setting sun

or escaping the heat we’re making

beneath my pick-up’s tarp and brightness

of the stadium parking lot lights.

We watch them rise, little stars

in our small town lives, the only zooming

we see around here. Well, besides the cars

racing around mountain roads, wheels

picking up dust, our hair eating wind.

As they go to the sky, we wonder

what it’d be like to be them: light,

carefree, not afraid to reach new heights,

to kiss the sun or die trying.