We used to gather,
wrapped in humidity
and stale air, watch
distant controlled
explosions bloom
(Climbing Hydrangea
tendrils ever reaching
for the unclaimed)
and overtake the inky blanket 
of night, rorschach
thunderheads looming
in the distance. 
When the pyrotechnic
percussive roar drew
its last breath, we offered
a standing ovation,
surrounded by sulfur
and fireflies.