Silently
we step out of the woods,
entering the field.
We are not
the first ones here
tonight.
The field is a winking face
with many eyes.
The fireflies
make room for us
as our bare feet
swish through the wet
grass.
Reaching the center of
the field
we lie on our backs
and watch
as shooting stars
use the night sky
as a canvas.
They are crazy painters
waving their brushes
around.
And when the streaks
fade
they dip their brushes
and start again.