Faries in the Garden

On Thursday evening this week, daddy insisted that mommy take a study break from her big presentation and come outside to see the fireflies. It was a perfect summer evening: warm, moist air illuminated by fading light that fell laterally onto the trees and grass, giving the land an otherwordly glow. Just as sun dropped below the trees that line the western horizon, it became just dark enough to see them: fairies dancing in the grass.

All three of us went out our front door together, as my sisters stood guard behind the glass door. We wandered through our front garden, delighting when we saw an occasional green spark of light whizz along the grass. Like tiny will-o-the-wisps drawing us deeper into the woods, we followed a small squadron of fireflies across the driveway and around the corner of our garage. The sight that greeted us stopped us in our tracks.

Looking out across our neighbor's yard, we saw hundreds of tiny points of light, dancing and bouncing along the grass and reeds at the edge of the forest. Our neighbor lives in the original Kimball farmhouse that gives our street its name. The last remant of that original farm is their large and very well kept vegetable patch; an oasis of level, open ground on the edge of the forested ravine that dominates our collective northern border. Our lawn rolls gently away from the house, a wave of black Iowan soil that blends into our neighbor's backyard-vegetable mini-farm. The summer pixies of twilight dominated the entire field, illuminating the pastoral with a magical glow that hypnotized anyone who gazed upon them.

It seems that fireflies are too ephemeral for conventional photography (the photo above was enhanced by photoshop). Only that biologic masterpeice of evolution, the human eye, can witness this scene in all its magical glory. The firefly's potential mates see only the enticing sparks of light. The hungry avian predators in the trees see only tantilizing dots of food. My sisters can enjoy most of this scene, but not the splendid color of the rosy-purple western sky or the green glow of the flying lights. The synthetic eyes of digital cameras can't detect the tiny sparks and get confused when trying to focus. The three humans standing in the driveway, jaws agape, take in this amazing scene while trying desperately to imprint it into their permanent memory- the only place where its ephemeral beauty will not be lost forever.

Here's a poem about fireflies I found on the web:

http://www.shinealight.com/write/poetry/fireflies.htm

Fireflies

By Bruce Nichols

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.