As I drift in and out of consciousness, the floating lights in the mason jar atop my windowsill glow like specks in the night. Moonlight casts a mercurial glimmer onto the shadow of the jar; who knew silver and green could blend like that? Perhaps fireflies and stars are not so different. Fireflies glow, then die, and so do stars. One of my stars hits the bottom of his glass prison. Plink. His tiny wings flutter,
and are still.
He dims until his hushed form is indiscernible in the darkness. Death has silenced him, and my star did not seem to fight. La mort est douce pour lui. At least I hope so, wish so, upon the first star I see; my eyes fall upon his body. Outside, in the deep blue of midnight, I look for another star. In my stupor, each one that I lay my eyes upon, seems to fall. I touch the cold oak floor with my bare feet, testing the waters, from one sea of black to another; my trance gives way to an awareness , aware that I can see nothing but silver and green. I stumble to the window. Fumbling until my fingers secure themselves around the lid. Twist. My stars float up into the gold-flecked sky; green and gold are not so different. I watch them until the stars and the fireflies are one and the same.