Dance of the Fireflies

End of November they came, high in the leaves clinging to the oaks, a soft enduring flame holding fast to the branches smoked. A twinkling of light upon the trunks speeding up and down like falling stars, each a separate entity unsung savoring the chilled night poet's memoirs. Eye of the beholder focused on images never seen before but present in clustered hypnoses of simple glowing magnificent decor. As if landing lights displayed blinking on and off in brilliant lit glow where once only dried leaves had laid sending a message to live life before it goes.