Thinking of Fireflies

I can’t hold it in anymore.

My soul is withered.

Never mind that you’ve heard it all before; I’m like a soda can shaken vigorously. It’s all broiled up inside me and ready to explode.

Bluebird skies above remind me of happier times. Times spent between and atop hog-backed hills and slump-shouldered mountains, feet sinking in sand or bounding over flat slabs of stone and gray boulders. Oh! I long for the wild azaleas, the dogwoods and the green buds. I ache deep within for the Buffalo River, Little River, Roaring Fork, places named Tremont and Pruitt and Cades Cove.

I keep thinking about the fireflies. Who, I wonder, will speak for the fireflies?

What errant strand of DNA, what dangling rung on my double-helix brings on this insatiable desire…no, need, for wild places and wild water? Was it all the X-rays I had as a child for various ailments of the ears, eyes, nose, legs? Did I consume some malevolent chemical the FDA allowed into our food and beverages that zapped a chromosome into an oddly-shaped, gnomish manifestation of forest and stream?

I don’t know. But it gnaws and chews at my bones all winter until I am . . . → Read More: Thinking of Fireflies