we classify you as a beetle,
call you “firefly”, “lightning
bug”, “glowworm”, but
i wonder if you
have a name for yourselves–
an identity, 
purpose

you seem to emit your glow
to attract a mate in the
gathering darkness of late
twilight

the fields in which you fly,
like star fields
winking in and
out of existence

when we were children,
we would gather you into
Mason jars, carry you 
inside, placing you
beside our beds to act
as tiny guards against
the creeping pressure of
the night

your pale yellow light
much like that of the 
sun–like miniature lighthouses
to guide us through the dark
until, together, we reach
the dawn