Right across the street from my driveway is a field. It's a field of tall grass, and uneven ground – or, so I assume. There's a clump of trees to the left of my driveway, on the edge, but they are small, and practically bushes. Yards away from the street, the ground turns up to become a hill, and, at the base, a line of trees that continues back – paused by the creek that runs parallel the road – and up the hill. The woods.
During the day, the sun shines down brightly, and you can see that the grass is clumped together, and one really doesn't care to try walk through it. In fact, it's rather...uninteresting, and probably home only to small tunneling creatures, such as rabbits, moles, and snakes – though I've never seen them. A handful of times a year, the grass gets mowed down by a tractor, but it's still a mess, and still looking as though it lacks adventure to be had.
But at night, in the late spring and early summer, things are different.
At dusk, they appear. When the sun sets, and the sky grays down to its midnight blue, they come out in droves.
Their lights twinkle and shimmer in the dark. That's all you see of them. Some of them are back in the trees, near the ground as well as up in the branches. Some are near the road, and you feel as though you can catch them if you go to the edge of the field. Most, however, are in between. And they dance back and forth, appearing here, appearing there, and then disappearing immediately afterwords.
They make the field look alive with magic. Their glimmering in the gentle heat of the summer night air call to you, begging your eyes to feast on their yellow ethereal beauty.
Some are only momentary appearances, while others may linger a second longer. But none last. They are a mystery among themselves, you think, winking at you without realizing it. It's the stars come down to earth. It's...wonderful.
They're fireflies, I know they are.
But, when I see them, just for a little, I almost believe that they are fairies.