Dance of the Fireflies

A hard, tropical sun sinks into the horizon,
Melting away mountains tops in margarine skies.
But as evening gale affectionately whispers,
It cools and then settles; Returning
To them their accustomed ruggedness.

Flickering, always flickering.
Out of the woodworks, emerge:
Flashes of red, green and gold.
They float about with a peculiar insouciance,
Painting psychedelic trails on blackened skies.

Glowing, always glowing,
Like skeins of neon smoke,
They flutter about in Cimmerian surroundings.
Through companioned trees, they glide,
Paying homage to matriarchal moon,
Bringing closer the distant stars.

Dancing, always dancing.
To sounds of wild rippling echoes,
Casting sonorous hums into silent spaces,
They dance away in magnetic forests,
Always playfully in a nocturnal trance,
As they patiently await a somnolent dawn.