Of course, you and I know they weren’t fireflies.
They were, of course, faeries.
This is the time of year they cross the bridge of time and float into our world to gather pollen from the night flowers and water from dawn’s dew drops. They fly around between the summer and autumnal equinox with their little buckets, gathering samples of the soil from deep in the woods and remnants of crops from the fields to take back home.
They stay just out of sight so humans can’t see them. Yes, they could take a chance on those who believe, but faeries don’t really take chances. Why bother with beings who just might swat them before thinking?
I love watching their random movements, their signals to each other as they play through twilight into the darkest of night. I can’t quite decipher their language, but sometimes it’s as if I hear their whispers and laughter in the distance; as if I can sense their pure joy of life.
Oh, I’ve heard all sorts of things about faeries/fairies/fae. They love sparkly things, wildflowers and plants, and music. They love honey cake, milk, nectar, and sweet butter. Fairies have an aversion to iron, and are quick to do you a favor, yet even quicker to demand payment for it.
I’ve never heard of anyone EVER seeing a faerie. Ever. They are myth, they are made up, they are born from our imagination and desire to create something fresh, free, and eternal.
But those naysayers have never looked off my deck into the warmth of a summer evening that slowly, ever so slowly, turns into a velvet black backdrop. They have never felt the electricity in the air of a knowledge and way of life that has been since the beginning of time and will continue long after we are dust.
They will never see, for they will never believe.