July Fourth

Like a wave rolling down the slant lip of sand,

the town has spilled shoreward, settled

on damp towels, in slumped folding chairs to watch

the sky weep with flame, lake shattered in a fit of blaze,

spent tubes raining down like featherweight shrapnel,

still sharp with gunpowder’s tang. But here

in the yard, those thunderous claps echo softly,

distant, and though no golden coruscation hisses

in the bated breath of evening, the lightning bugs have

something to say about a hushed and shock-less awe.

Forget what bursts in air—the greatest nation wings

silent through the apertures of tree limbs like sparks

caught in the night’s watchful eyes. What do we know

of their cool, calm glow calling bodies toward creation,

insisting life doesn't begin with the scorched earth

of empire, but with one small gleam kindling another

and another in an endless turn of seasons until the

darkness shimmers with a true and steady light.