Late last night, we found a firefly in the house. He must have flown in through the open window, from the damp, rain-washed woods outside. He flew across the room and decided to settle on my arm, only to discover that the soft sweater had too many softer strands of wool sticking out.
“Oh my God!! That's a firefly!”, we yelled, and switched off all the lights so we could see the blinking little visitor. For a minute after he flew away from my arm, he hid behind a an ash-tray, walking about quite peacefully, unaware of the eyes following him about his path. I watched him scuttle around, his quiet, green light coming on and going off in a strange, silent rhythm of nature. He crawled behind a blue glass vase and turned a mild yellow, walked around a the brown ash tray and turned a soft green and then suddenly came out, in the full open, facing me. He sat there for a few minutes, his light blinking in the quietest and most blinding manner.
And then all of a sudden, he stopped glowing.
I lifted him in the palm of my hand, where he began walking about, exploring the lines and the curves. He gingerly stepped over the rolling meadows of skin and lines, and slowly the glow came back again...and he walked about, blinking, glowing, lighting up my face in little phosphorescent bursts of joy.