beacons

the moon is burnt
settling low in the sky
among tree shadows

riding along old gravel roads
worn into the earth
the light of fireflies becomes long
dashes of green
trailing along lines of corn
my hand to the car window
tracing my fingers after them

pausing long enough to tumble out of the car
stopping standing still
air shimmering
hands outstretched
through the muggy summer air
fireflies sparking

the sky glitters

all around
campfires blaze and settle
beer passed in a circle
porch lights flicker on and off
calling us home