Chasing Lightning Bugs

On summer nights, our bodies young and lean, browned by the Southern sun,
my friends and I ran loose and barefoot
on the warm asphalt streets of our quiet little town.
Sometimes we chased the lightning bugs that came out of nowhere
to twinkle in the damp darkness.
One by one,
we plucked them from the air and stuffed them into Mason jars
until we had enough to fashion a sort of living lantern,
Then punched air holes in the lids,
and sometimes added a few drops of water or blades of grass,
just to make everyone more comfortable.
Still, the bugs swarmed up the sides of the jar,
flashing on and off, on and off,
searching for a portal to freedom.
They tended to clump up at the top,
making it tricky to add new bugs
without losing a few others in the process.
At bedtime, when our parents called us in,
we opened our jars
and watched our tiny captives climb out.
Most teetered a bit on the rim
before spreading wings and taking flight.
One by one,
they disappeared into the darkness for a moment or two,
then blinked their goodbyes,
now here,
now there,
now among the trees at the edge of the yard,
until at last we could not tell
which of the lights twinkling against the night were bugs
and which were stars.

August 1, 2007