Something

Fireworks pop at the tree line, looking from our property. We can see about four different displays from some local lakes. I sit against the fence we had put up to keep the dogs in the yard, away from the road. It is a quiet spot to watch the fireworks. But I get distracted from the different shows by the silent fireflies blinking less predictably than the explosions of the fireworks. Tiny neon lights pepper the six feet above the kale and tomatoes. Sometimes the fireflies pulse together, seemingly in unison with the pops and blasts from the lakes. Other times, they sing their own quiet song, never allowing life to sleep on the farm. Something is always happening here. Everything rests at times, but something is always happening here.