Fireflies
by: Michael E. Quigley

The wind—the music begins.
A building spiral of rise-and-fall, rise-and-fall, rise-and-fall.
Tuning, scales, arpeggios, chords, the symphony.
And then the dance.

Newly fallen palo verde petals
rise up, stretch, twirl, bow and stream across the parking lot;
rising and falling like a liquid, like the particles of a wave.
Like a flock of birds I’d seen once in Africa,
diving from tree to water hole to tree
as a single fluid entity, the yellow palo verde petals
pirouette, tango, waltz, swing and hip-hop to a common rhythm,
their rising and falling makes the music visible.

The thousands of bright yellow petals
reflect the sun as they flicker above the blacktop
like fireflies.
As the breeze moves beyond them they softly settle to the ground,
like the bubbles in the wake of a great passing presence;
strewn like bedsheets,
freezing the pattern of their last dance.

In their graceful arcs I see
yellow-petal cirrus clouds,
early impressionist brushstrokes on a canvas,
runes and heiroglyphs of hidden worlds,
resting travelers on an epic journey.
Waiting. Waiting for it to begin again.
I feel for the breeze. I listen for the music. I slip into the stream.
Remembering, tuning.
We will again be yellow flower petals.

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Copyright, Michael E. Quigley; contact the author for more information.