MAURA HIGH

ENGLYNION FOR FIREFLIES

A rock, a flounce of leaves, flare in the sun.
A gleam of lichen.
A brief illumination

of green and rust, in the darkening wood.
A bright chord sounding
for a moment, and fading

back behind the old hickories and oaks.
Which then vanishes,
leaving dusk to the fireflies,

that rise now as if summoned and drift—down
there, up here, their soft
lights like voices on and off

and erratic above the damp, dead leaves
littering the wood.
Voices calling without words:

one another—not us—yet we light up
with them, and the night
frog calls, cicada, cricket.

Maura High lives in the North Carolina piedmont, among ticks, mosquitos, and many beetles, butterflies, moths, wasps, bees, dragonflies, and flies. In her home country, Wales, she encountered far fewer insects. She write mostly about the place she lives now, its ecology, all its creatures, its difficult past and future. Her poems have been published in print and online magazines, and in three chapbooks. She was awarded the 2022 William Matthews Poetry Prize and the 2022 Terrain Poetry Prize, among other awards and recognitions. maurahigh.com.