The Music of Fireflies

Enveloped by moonless darkness on an Appalachian summer’s eve, I find myself at last surrounded by fireflies dancing in synchronicity. Mouth hanging open, I barely remember to breathe as the night opens and I step into a web of stars and starbugs, to the music of coyotes and the sound of deer snorting – their hooves pawing the soil until I sink low to the ground to seem less large and less smelly. After I’ve shrunk enough, I’m allowed to stay and watch while the sky blankets me in glitter and the smell of grass and soil wash me clean. A screech owl whinnies in the distance and somewhere in the back of my mind arises the knowledge that tomorrow will be longer and harder for this nocturnal venture, but life will seem easier. 

It’s been nearly a decade since I’ve witnessed this lightning bug magic that once filled my childhood summers and which I couldn’t imagine didn’t exist everywhere, and would in fact one day be endangered. All week I’ve been despairing because the wildfire smoke had drifted down all the way from Canada and the fields were so dry from drought that I’d begun to wonder if I’d come too soon to see them, or too late altogether. But then the rains came and here they are, as thick as the stars in every direction, filling my soul with light once more.  

In the density of their ethereal dance, it’s easy to forget the battles being waged against these creatures – so tiny as to seem insignificant, yet undeniably magical. Some of the more than 2,000 species of Lampyridae (light-emitting beetles) have graced the world’s skies for millions of years. Scientists know very little about their importance in our ecosystems because they have only recently begun to really study them, but they do know that their numbers are declining and many species are threatened with extinction.

Logging and mining have ravaged their forests. The wet places where they lay their eggs are being swallowed by buildings, parking lots, and roads. Pesticides and pollution have contaminated the water and soil where their larvae sleep. The night skies are increasingly lit by urban skyglow, making it impossible to find each other to mate. And now even the remaining wild places are threatened by increasing droughts and wildfires brought by climate change. 

The departure of this tiny, ancient glowing bug from our landscapes underscores the rapid erosion of the natural web in a very short period. Sadly, they are disappearing at the very time when we most need something magical to reconnect us with that web. In their presence tonight, I feel a sense of both awe and apprehension – their sheer brilliance, juxtaposed against the fear that one day, this could all just be another memory of times never to come again. What can I do but appreciate it all the more and try to imprint it deep into memory for those moments when I once again forget the magic of this world?  

When at last I rise to make my way to bed, I encounter a porcupine waddling in my path and I again forget the calling of my human world and walk slower, letting him lead, for how does one pass a porcupine anyway? And even if I could, how rude. Every now and then he turns and gazes at me as I gaze at him, and I wonder when was the last time he met a human this late at night and what he’d ask me if he could. Or maybe he is with the glances and grunts and I just don’t understand even as I listen, listen, listen to the night so full of life. 

Here are the deer, the owls, the coyotes, the scent of earth clinging to my skin. Here are the wild things still gathering when the humans have gone to sleep, when the world becomes safe for singing and the meadow waters form pools anew at the forest’s edge. In their resilient presence, I stand humbled, watching flickers of hope illuminate the darkness.