It’s hot. A firefly lands on the shady side of the white railing, antennae moving rapidly as if assessing a new, poor substitute for night.
A helicopter alone in the clear sky: the mingled notes of its motor, high and low. A firefly sails past, inner wings glowing in the sun.
Overcast and cold. A firefly floats past the porch with his abdomen pointing down, lamp at the ready for any unscheduled onset of darkness.