AT DUSK, A POEM

At dusk, the fireflies in silent fulmination,
drifting upward, like fleeting stars shooting
skyward, caught askance on a black screen
of probability, seen then unseen, possibly, yes,
in the settling darkness, in the quickening
shadows of coming night. They are a tribe
beyond our realms of noise. A room full
of conversation intimated, then quietly fulfilled.

 

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