A child in pastureland, converted to a little suburban enclave. Hissing lawns. Small homes, scattered around a cul de sac. Long summer nights. Deep, dark sky, illuminated by millions of stars. We'd play games on the lawn; tag, hide & seek, statues, (one touch and you were turned to stone), on thick carpets of manicured green. A tamed heartland town.
The crickets and cicadas would sing like broken, silver springs unwinding into the void. The darkness was like a black cloak surrounding us. We could barely see our hands in front of our faces. Except on the nights when the moon took center stage. A big, cold, spotlight, streaming down lighting us up, and illuminating the tips of the stretching grass.
The lightening bugs would appear. Little sparks in the air. Bugs. We'd catch them in a jar. A jar of fiery beings. We wanted to know what they were. They were bugs, but at the same time they were little luminous, sources of fire. Sparking. Flaming. Lighting up the darkness. We'd empty the jars back into the air.
The lightening bugs flamed away in front of us. For a short time. Then disappeared back into the great looming darkness. Little beings of light and darkness. Just like us.
