Fireflies
Driving down a country road one sultry summer evening,
with headlights sweeping through the little clouds of dust ahead,
Caused by cars that led the way or met me in the night,
I scanned the ditches, left and right, for signs to find a bed.
I’d always stayed in small motels, for more than thirty years
and always favored little towns, with cozy, quaint cafés.
Their friendliness and peacefulness had been the better part
of how I’d always wound up winding down my working days.
Selling ladies shoes was what I did to earn a living.
My clientele were clothing stores within a hundred miles
Of where I lived, in Pinkerton, and I’d done fairly well
by making sure I’d always kept abreast of current styles.
Somewhere north of Buckingham, and west of Waterloo,
a deer, from out of nowhere, charged across the gravel road.
Slamming on the brakes and sliding sideways to a stop,
I disembarked and trotted round the back to check my load.
Everything was moved a bit, but basically intact,
I breathed a sigh of great relief, then jumped back in the seat.
But when I tried to drive away, I found that I was stuck,
and after several failed attempts, stepped back into the heat.
Though recent rains had left the shoulder soft, my spinning tires
had spewed a massive cloud of dust, which darkened more the night,
But once the air had fin’ly cleared I found myself surrounded
by what I’d have to simply call an overwhelming sight.
Brilliant, sparkling, floating dots as far as I could see—
their legions rivaling galaxies would quickly mesmerize
a mind that, for a moment, felt the sky was upside down;
but what had seemed a million stars, were actually fireflies!
Wafting through the quiet night, like embers fit with wings,
the twinkling quilt of tiny sparks exposed a field of hay.
They looked like little lantern-guided boats adrift at sea
that hid behind the waves then reappeared as if at play.
Nothing can prepare you for a vision such as this,
and I can guarantee you I will not forget the sight.
And ever since that evening, as I drive from town to town,
I scan the summer country fields for what I saw that night.
I search the hills and valleys for the tiny blinking specks
to watch them light then fade, then light, then fade again from view.
The spectacle is timeless, and it always makes me smile.
It’s simply just amazing what those little bugs can do.
In fact, I still remember, as a child, I’d run the yard
on quiet summer evenings with an empty mason jar,
And pluck a tiny firefly from flight to watch it glow.
At only five years old, to me it seemed a “flying star.”
So this is why I don’t complain about the bolting deer,
and I am actually grateful that I wound up getting stuck.
I would stand there, hypnotized, for nearly half an hour
before I finally said goodbye, and climbed back in my truck.
Quite away from anything that seemed a means of help,
I beat that old transmission up to rock ‘er back and forth,
And I could feel a tiny bit o’ progress every time,
until, at last, instead of facing west I pointed north.
Only three or four more tries and I was out and gone,
but as the twinkling ocean slowly disappeared from view,
for long neglected embers that it stoked within my heart,
I said a little prayer of thanks to all the sparks that flew.
Mark Stellinga is a poet and antiques dealer residing in Iowa. He has often won the annual adult-division poetry contests sponsored by the University of Iowa Writer’s Workshop, has had many pieces posted in several magazines and sites over the past 60 years, including Poem-Hunter.com, PoetrySoup.com, and Able Muse.com—where he won the 1st place prize for both ‘best poem’ of the year and ‘best book of verse.’
