When I was growing up, they were lightning bugs. Later I learned they’re also known as fireflies. Both appellations sound like science-fiction illumination. What do they call themselves in the signals they send out?
Late each spring to my yard comes this winged migration, localized weather patterns circulating in the night air, the clouds of photons alive, sparks flickering in the dark. These tiny bright angels surely will herald the season’s tidings if I stand still and pay attention.
Ronnie Sirmans is an editor at The Atlanta Journal-Constitution. His poem “Earth to Earth, Ashes to Ashes” appeared in The Behemoth’s issue 39.
