Whimsical Winding

     Fireflies dot the sky
like cheap, malfunctioning Christmas lights
blinking on and off.

The long grasses whipping my legs
as we run through the field.
Leapin' and reachin'
tryin' just to hold one in my hand.

Their aura of brilliant bright light surround them
like a halo
until childish hands stuff them in jars as pets.

The noisy laughter of grown-ups
and crab mallets banging the wooden table
fill my ears

Breathing in the smell of Old Bay,
burned-out sparklers and
That cool July breeze.