Fireflies

Beneath the dogwood,
its gray branches reaching out across us,
protective arms,
a thin gypsy mother,
dangling shell and silver windchimes,
tucked into translucent chartreuse leaves
tangled and glossy as a mass of gypsy hair,
we lie and listen,
I listen and you giggle,
I ask you to listen, straining my own ears;
you manage silence for a moment
before the thousand questions begin,
and in that moment,
a mockingbird leaps and fiddles,
a wren scolds and chides,
a bluebird whistles and spins,
a mourning dove weeps and moans,
a meadowlark warbles and croons,
a symphony of crickets and cicadas tune their violins,
their cellos, their ukuleles, their mandolins,
and a firefly,
a spot of darkness floating across the creeping darkness,
pulls a star from the sky.