Barnlights

Those

fireflies

spark

in the hum and burr of twilight,

when our legs begin to itch from the day’s rambles.

Chiggers and tall grass have left their mark,

a tattoo peeled away in the bath.

Suppose it’s open season on childhood,

where we can mutter warnings of anthills and bats that

swoop around the trees with a sound like

a magician’s cape unfurling. When the day burns out

there is nothing left but thirst and hiraeth and we move as one,

like a murmuration,

to the barnlights calling us home.

Header photograph © Asher.