My Fourth

The fireflies
stream up from the ground
like roman candles.
The bottle rockets
stream up and around
like fireflies.

Mortars lift star shells
over the trees.
And, in every lull
the fireflies flash
like they're desperately,
crazily, trying to
communicate
with the fireworks,
make insectoid sense
out of the senseless
love of light
and noise.

On a normal night
they rise,
slowly, stately
toward the trees
sending their signals
to each other
calmly, carefully,
but not tonight.

They are confused

by Independence

and its illegal light.