by Michael Pettit

    Just past dusk I passed Christiansburg，

    cluster of lights sharpening

    as the violet backdrop of the Blue Ridge¹

    darkened. Not stars

    but blue-black mountains rose

    before me， rose like sleep

    after hours of driving， hundreds of miles

    blurred² behind me. My eyelids³

    were so heavy but I could see

    far ahead a summer thunderstorm flashing，

    lightning sparking from cloud

    to mountaintop. I drove toward it，

    into the pass at Ironto， the dark

    now deeper in the long steep grades，

    heavy in the shadow of mountains weighted

    with evergreens⁴， with spruce， pine，

    and cedar⁵. How I wished to sleep

    in that sweet air， which filled——

    suddenly over a rise——with the small

    lights of countless⁶ fireflies. Everywhere

    they drifted， sweeping⁷ from the trees

    down to the highway my headlights lit.

    Fireflies blinked in the distance

    and before my eyes， just before

    the windshield struck them and they died.

    Cold phosphorescent green， on the glass

    their bodies clung like buds bursting

    the clean line of a branch in spring.

    How long it lasted， how many struck

    and bloomed as I drove on， hypnotic

    stare fixed⁸ on the road ahead， I can't say.

    Beyond them， beyond their swarming⁹

    bright deaths came the rain， a shower

    which fell like some dark blessing¹⁰.

    Imagine when I flicked¹¹ the windshield wipers on

    what an eerie¹² glowing beauty faced me.

    In that smeared¹³， streaked¹⁴ light

    diminished sweep by sweep you could have seen

    my face. It was weary， shocked， awakened¹⁵，

    alive with wonder far after the blades and rain

    swept clean the light of those lives

    passed， like stars rolling over

    the earth， now into other lives.

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