Hour 9: Fireflies

Each morning in Thomasville, the air smelled of varnish from the furniture factory
Sun like I’d never seen woke me, warming the air, begging me to go outside
The heat meant I could smell every tree, every blade of grass
At night the air rang with the chirping of crickets, like a Hollywood film, I thought
And then out came the fireflies, sparking in strange yellow-green
Stalking from the screened porch,  with its faded green paint
We ran to the treeline to bottle them – easy to do, it turned out
But they couldn’t stay in the jar for long – they’d lose their glow
At night, back in my bed, I’d watch them bumble past my window

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