It is fairyland in the back yard
with bedtime closing in
We are chasing fireflies
Occasional laughter drifts over
from the lawn chairs by the house
where our folks sit sipping
vodka on the rocks or
ice-chilled cans of beer
There is no light but for fireflies
and the glow of cigarettes in the distance
The fireflies are filled with magic
We do not place them in jars
Not even in jam jars
with holes punched in the lids
We cup them in our hands
watch them flicker once
before setting them free
to fly away home
the way ladybugs do
I glance back at my father
He will be rising soon
beckoning us indoors
He flicks his cigarette ash
into the wispy night air
This too seems an act of magic
because it is my father who is doing the flicking
©2012 Barbara Moore
The Montucky Review