Fireflies

A glow worm illuminates the cavern of your ear

until a raven plucks it out, gulps it down. 
Beams of light burst from its nostrils, 
spill from the hairline cracks in its beak. 

I grab the bird by its feet, hold it before me like a lantern

as I pick my way through the pewter thicket,

carefully stepping over the bony roots.

Metal claws scrape the flinty paths

of the empty creek beds, sparks flashing 

in the shadows on either side. But I do not run, 

and eventually reach the clearing,

where only the closest tips of sedge are visible,

shimmering blades that scatter like minnows

when I swing my feathered beacon back and forth
then hurl it in an arc across the blackened meadow.

When I hear it catch the wind, a snapping kite,
I collapse into the soft, wet grass, 

turn my head and wait for a glow worm 

to twist its way into the shelter of my ear. 
I lie there on my back in the rain
and close my eyes

and listen for your footsteps.