A Mason Jar, Full of Lightning Bugs

Ohio summer, hot & humid.

Comanches.

That’s what my Pop called us.

His boys.

Life was sweet and easy.

We played until dark.

mosquito bites and cuts.

Bruised and filthy.

We played.

The night called to us, with a voice wild and sensuous.

The lightning bugs flickered like gems in a jeweled dome.

We thought of nothing, we just felt.

Feeling free, wild , dirty and stinking.

Almost naked, cut off jeans no shirts no shoes.

Feet, black from the wondrous Ohio dirt.

Scratched, bruised and delighted

Hillbillies, meaning no harm, to nature.

Frogs and crickets sounding their love songs.

Tall Maples begging to be climbed.

Thousands of lightning bugs.

Mason jar to keep em in.

Full moon on the rise,

We stayed out until the old man called us home.

Bath time. Black water circling the drain.

I recall the Mason jar, the lightning bugs.

I remember the breeze box in the window.