Lightning Bug by Amy Thompson

When the sun
plunges into the extinguishing
waters of the ocean,
and matronly hands
rinse away
remnants of dinner,
tiny beacons of light begin their
fearful flight from
bush to tree, and back again.
Tiny voices chase them with a
whisper, a
shout.
I’ve got one
plots points of
safety; of
detection.
Every flicker,
every beam of
iridescence risks
their capture; their torture.
Plucked souls, displayed on
pint-sized fingers, are
admired like
polished gems.
No thought for the
discarded corpse;
just a giggle and
a glance for another.