When I was a kid we used to catch fireflies all summer long. It was a never-ending source of entertainment and wonder. When you finally catch one—those little buggers are difficult to capture—you first feel their soft bodies crawling around in your hands. Then they light up. And you can see it through the soft skin between your fingers; their little yellow glow peaks through just like it does through the nighttime air.
This weekend I went home to catch some fireflies, well, not just for the fireflies but to relax and enjoy the quiet. I spent a night in my backyard with a glass chasing around the few sparklers that were still out. I couldn’t do it, I wasn’t quick enough or smart enough to predict where they were going and I didn’t catch a single one.
When I got back to the city on Sunday night I dropped my stuff off at my apartment and went out to meet some friends and as I was about to cross Bowery on 5th street a little flash caught my eye. Sure enough it was a firefly, lost in Manhattan. This time I caught it easily, and when I opened my hand it just sat there and I reminded it that there were much better places to show off it’s glow then the East Village and let it crawl onto a nearby light post.
“So you’re running round the parking lot
til every lightning bug is caught
Punching some pinholes
In the lid of a jar
While we wait in the car”
