The star goes into its bright phase, and it’s been eight months, and we all climb up out of the ground like so many cicadae and get to work. We don’t pause to feel the warmth on our faces, we don’t shake hands and hug. There’s too much to be done, to be built, and too little time to waste.
It’s when the dimming starts that we celebrate: not because we look forward to the dark, to long dangerous night that drives us underground; because of everything we’ve accomplished in the weeks of light. We eat and we talk and we make plans both for the coming darkness and for the brightness beyond. We watch the children laugh and play. They light the candles and run in circles under a sky dying from blue to red. They’re fireflies; we brought fireflies.
I just wonder where they get all that energy.