Swarms of silent lightning bugs rule the otherwise dark back yard, staying close to the grass that’s due for cutting. Above the high, broken clouds, jets drag their sounds on leashes of time behind faster flashing beacons. Sensitive to the noise of storms and celebrations, the dogs are indifferent to winged passersby, attention and concern fixed on that point beyond the horizon where the cannon roar from early fireworks resonates long after the pseudo-lightning has come and gone. I think of my grandson, partially back from Afghanistan, even as a corner of me recalls night lights seen and rumblings heard while a few miles offshore near Danang, and sigh.