By Leslie Klipsch

I lounge
in a plastic lawn chair
while children run circles --
giggling, yelling,

flailing fervently --
silhouettes slight at dusk,
small arms
swat the air.

Fireflies
circle about,
dazzling the young hunters --
the glimmer of insect bodies

like the thrill
of a shooting star,
a lunar eclipse,
a prism caught

for a moment
in the storm
of summer sunlight.
A young boy's

eyes widen
as the glow is trapped
in the cup
of his small hands.

The tickle of frantic wings
feels foreign in
palms that are
used to pencils and

handle bars and baseball bats.
All night I think about
hands and the power that
pulsates

in the capture of
tiny, panicked wings,
and of the mercy that throbs
in their release.

Comments are closed 2 months after a piece is published.