On summer nights when fireflies abound,
it’s hard not to believe in fairy flight,
to discard fancy born, formless, beneath
the moon-bright shiver. On summer nights

the insect bodies sway and tumble, weave
fey runes in heated air above the trees,
the inborne drive to procreate a goad.
Finless, they breaststroke the vernal breezes

seeking light to sate their deepest need
while I, inchoate, stare into darkness,
flutter phantom wings, grow small, shed my skin,
reform to join them, the ancient congress,

sharing native secrets in the slipstream,
rising, mortal still, between gods and dreams.