Fireflies at Dusk

The day relinquishes its grip in golden threads. Fireflies emerge—small mathematicians of the dark, writing equations only moths can read.

Each flash a question: Am I here? Am I answered? The grass holds its breath.

We stand at the threshold where color drains into the violet hour, where shadows gain their own shadow, where light becomes a language we forgot we spoke.

A single ember traces the air. Then another. Then the whole meadow remembers how to dream in morse code.