We cruised down the river at night.

The safety neon vest tightened around our chests.

We were in search of light deep in the waterway

thickened with the roots of mangroves 
long unmoved by river’s flow. There was no

waste to this visit, the journey over distance.

Then there it was: the singular song,

out of the weave of dark and branches, 
the hologram of light and leaves.

It was a sight easily mimicked in

the cities, in season of commerce

and joy. To be in the presence of fleeting 
gold, in pursuit of love among fireflies,

creatures familiar with the wisdom of

flimsy wings that beat themselves

to dust, that lights up at the first  
instance of loss. We paddled away from

that galaxy, our efforts drowned by a

hurtling motorboat pressed on

by the sudden, jarring click of a phone,  
posting to share with an eager world

where we are, this realm of ethereal glow,

a marvel of wings into the night.