Fireflies

It's darker than a normal night, the blooming clouds cover the stars and let down their sparkling tresses--soft whispers of rain that accumulate slowly on new, broad leaves and fall in great heavy drops onto green grasses and weeds reaching their arms to the branches above; the mists pack the dusty earth, and I walk through an active fog. The trees surrounding me form unfamiliar shadows in varying degrees of dark. Fingers of light from a lone lamp grope their way through zealous leaves and trace the rings of ripples in the river under the rain. The yellow light is a faux-friend--a scant substitute for the milk-light of the moon. 

I make my way under and across bridges. I walk on damp trails and mud splatters my calves and wet weeds slap my feet. I pick  through the darkness only by the feel of the cut earth under my steps. Only the sound of the river rushing against rocks or lazily lapping its calm banks accompany me. 

The mist and the fog subside and I raise my face to look for the sky between the canopy; but I see no white lights above me--only the fleeting, flickering lights blinking beneath the leaves. They are ephemeral and esoteric, but they are bright--glowing orbs of miniscule lights. On this night, it is the yellow, blinking lights of fireflies that break the dense darkness