The last glow

“A Plea from the Fireflies”

On summer nights not so long ago, the world would hum with quiet wonder. Children darted barefoot through the grass, their laughter echoing in the dusk, chasing tiny lanterns that blinked and danced like fallen stars come to play. Fireflies, the gentle alchemists of twilight, lit up the darkness not with noise or fear, but with a kind of magic, soft and holy, like candlelight flickering in prayer.

But now the nights grow quieter.
Beneath the moon’s pale gaze, the meadows that once pulsed with golden life now lie still, trimmed too short, sprayed too clean, and lit too bright. The fireflies, once abundant as dreams in a child’s sleep, are fading, and with them, a piece of the Earth’s living poetry.

They try to shine, but the sky glows with an artificial glare. Porch lights burn like miniature suns, drowning out the sacred signals meant only for lovers of their kind. Each flash, once a hopeful hello, becomes lost in a blaze of human indifference. They blink again. And again. But no one blinks back.

Their eggs, once nestled safely in moist leaf litter and decaying logs, now wither on scorched lawns and poisoned soil. Pesticides, invisible daggers, sink into the earth, erasing the fragile lives before they even begin. The hum of the mower, the hiss of the spray, the click of a porch light, these are the sounds of their slow extinction.

If you listen closely in the hush of evening, you might still hear them. Not their wings, those are silent. But their absence. A stillness where once there was joy. A night without stories written in light.

But it isn’t too late.
Plant a native tree, and feel its roots reach downward like a promise. Let a log rot in peace, it is not decay, but a cradle for something luminous. Create a water garden where the air smells sweet and frogs sing lullabies. And when the sun goes down, turn off the lights. Let the dark be dark again, so that it can be filled with stars both in the sky and on the ground.

The fireflies are calling out, one flicker at a time. They are not asking for much. Just space to shine. Just a little silence in the night. Just a world kind enough to let them glow.

And if we listen, really listen, perhaps one warm summer night, we’ll step outside and gasp once more as the grass begins to sparkle… and the fireflies come home.