The lights drift dreamily across the yard,
Enticingly green and ethereal,
Against navy hues of twilight.
The children dart from here to there,
Their tiny hands clawing the night sky
As tiny blurs of insectile wing-beats
Flutter against their eager palms.
Green glow explodes behind cupped fingers,
A soft bolt of lightning in their hands.
The species dims as quickly
As the faint beams that fill the night;
The creatures rarely seen in the neighborhood anymore.
But every once in a while,
I squint beyond the glare of the porch light
To spot the persevering blinks of yellow-green,
A sporadic signal repeated endlessly,
Alone but not lonely,
A miniscule beacon that falters,
Then brightens once more.