Fireflies

there is no moon tonight.
the warm air is moist and fragrant
with the smell of new mown hay.
leaves in the dark sentinel trees
rustle softly, rustle softly,
in the tender grasp
of a gentle breeze.

settled in their grassy cloisters
crickets trill staccato mantras
across the tangled fields of night;
and all around the fireflies, the fireflies,
appearing – disappearing.
coming into bright existence,
dissolving into darkness,
then reincarnating, again,
any yet again, in luminous grace.