No country for fireflies

That brief stab of light in the darkness – I’m sure that was a firefly.

I’m sure it wasn’t. This is no country for fireflies.

Beyond the garden fence, there is the sharp little sound, like a tiny explosion, of a match being struck, but most of the light is trapped in the smoker’s cupped hands. Then the beedi takes over, its red glow waxing and waning in the dark.

midnight –
without a moon
the silence deeper