Branches heavy with the night’s perfume
the moon holds back the song
in her soft, bright throat,

the silence of a thousand moons
trapped in a thousand drops of dew.

Lightning bugs signal their location
in the approaching dark like God,
the ancient firefly, flashing,
disappearing, again, and again.

Is the next one the same
small beacon from a moment ago,

or some new light,
illuminating for only a flash
another infinitesimal corner of the cosmic dark?