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The shadowy moons on the pale green wings
of Luna Moths, and the Pipe Vine Swallowtails'
sunlit ruffles. The blue iridescence of beetles,
whose shards sometimes litter my herb garden.
That I can see it's no great leap from nature
to transformer toys or the hypermechanical
beady-eyed beasts of science-fiction flicks.
We've not come so far since Mothra.
And fireflies. Last year, driving backroads
at midnight, hundreds of fireflies.
I'd spent an evening at my desk,
cradling my face with my hands.
Such ostensible stillness, of course,
always gives way to restlessness.
And the drive, dense woods,
only my headlights cutting a swath
in the darkness, a small lamp held at arm's length.
I pulled over, flipped them off,
let down the windows, killed the engine.
Frogs and crickets. Moist soil and humid air
turning a dark world feral and fertile.
And then the fireflies, not hugging the ground
as they did by the river, but ascending
into the upper limbs of the Shortleaf pines.
Christmas in July.
I confess I sometimes pray for snow
to render this landscape colorless and cool,
silent and scentless for a season.
Such thoughts, I know, are merely fanciful
musings in an age whose noise strikes nerves
like a dentist's drill,
old mechanical mosquito.
But today, after four gray days of rain,
strong winds, thunder, lightning
and a little hail, the sun is rising.
I relish this day of sun
and what small visions the heat sustains.
for Ron and Holly
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