Fires So High

Fires So High

Fireflies, in the maple trees,

the bamboo, and the myrtle,

blink —even into our dark

living room. They float round

the ceiling as sparks, here then

there against the cowling,

circling the hearth, flying out

to the roof and up higher

into the hickory like embers

from flints, like the LEDs

above my head. They crackle

into dusk like plane

indicators or lit swamp gas.