A Firefly Evening

The day retreats, and a warm dusk settles across the fields. I wander the edge of a meadow, the tall grasses brushing my legs. The sky glows pale orange near the horizon, slowly deepening into lavender and blue.

Then, from nowhere, the lights appear—soft and scattered at first, then more and more.

Fireflies.

They drift between the stems, their glow pulsing gently, almost shy. I watch in stillness, feeling the hush of the hour wrap around me.

Their light is not to show the way, not to dazzle, but simply to be. Small, gentle, sufficient.

Not every truth needs to arrive with thunder. Some truths float in the dark, asking nothing but presence.