I. Before dawn this morning the last firefly of summer sails by the window like a star.
This morning before dawn before trash trucks or lawnmowers- before birdsong; the last firefly of summer soars by the window
like a ship headed toward the sky and had it not sailed by I would have forgotten all the fireflies who ended their seasonal fling in July
and forgotten too, those summers spent dreaming of the future in mountain streams or sitting under a blue umbrella sipping soda to the song of tree frogs.
Before dawn the gibbous moon gives that particular glow to the lawn and the blue umbrella sways beneath the dark trees.
There is only one firefly- all the others have been long forgotten like so many things that shimmer with mystery and vanish.