Subtle Variations of Magic

Dusk falls and the horizon glows a dusty blue. A confederate breeze makes its presence known to the humid world, and trees fade from green to black as an ancient forest of oaks come to life.

Night is not silent and it is not still.

The world moves continuously toward light. Even as darkness seems to get thicker and heavier, it turns forever toward the light. Like the world, always moving, never resting, the night also moves and curves, it breathes and grows. It is teeming with energy and life. But something else happens in the dark. A whole new world of somethings presents itself to the darkness. For it is only at night that its true colors show, and it joys to show the world what it can do.

Something comes alive.

Emerging from the white air conditioned house with the perfect blue window trim, brushing my hair out of my eyes with excited fingers, I give in to the beckoning of the oak forest. Between the time-bent wood rails I slip and make my way down the dirt lane. I escape the confounds of the blindingly dark estate. Armed with a warped brown glass jar, I reach the edge of the gray forest. Peering into the darkness, my eyes seek out the magic. Patience is important. Patience is key.

I am going to catch the magic.

Flitting between emerald leaves and amber twigs, gold and silver sparks of beauty. Flashes of power and fascination. Thousand year old transporters of thousand year old secrets. Catchers and holders, they never let go of the light. They posses it. Control it. Energizing the night with their power. They wink at the darkness and taunt him. He has no authority over them.

They are music. They are color. They are magic.

I believe in magic. Magic is everywhere. In the words we write, in the sounds of the Sea, in the promise of rainbows, in the corners of the clouds. In the forests of the South and among plants defying gravity. I believe in magic. I want to be a catcher and holder.

I want to hold thousand year old secrets in my hands.

They are not prisoners in their glass jars. They are protectors, no, guardians. From their crystal castles they wink at the darkness while we sleep. They gloat at the night. For when the sun rises, he must let go of his hold of this confederate world and give way to the light. Though never really declared, the battle is over.

The fireflies win.

My jar holds magic. Secrets unspoken, never to be uttered, passed from generation to generation. From guardian to guardian. And it is mine. A dozen golden sparks of magic, my own guardians to taunt the night. To watch over me. To win the battle while I sleep. Reflecting off the mirror across the room, and the window above my head, I am surrounded by magic.

Subtle variations of magic.

Inspired by Fireflies by Owl City.

For Jay.