Lightning bugs that talk

What do they say?

Walking along the forest path, through the humidity of a summer evening that follows a morning of rain, the air feels thick. You can’t see it, but you can touch it. Almost taste it. Walking along, the sun now well set, the sharp shadowed shapes of the forest begin to fade, faintly falling and flowing into one another, twilight’s gentle glow sweeping softly through the sheltered growth.

Light’s failing glance fells a forest.

A tree trunk here merges with another there. A bunch of leaves, once sharply pronounced, jumping with color, now globs together, a dim mass of hanging shadow. All that is forest coalesces into one, falls away.

But as the dying light hides one of Earth’s raiments, it brings another to life.

Suddenly, one, two, six, a dozen flashes of light glance through the forest. More and more, near and far, soon all the forest a patchwork of dancing points of light. And this new light enlightens another once hidden reality.

For the first time, you can see the air, betrayed by these dancing, winged proxies.

You can now see a depth to the air you could once only feel, taste. Now by these points of light suspended in its texture, it has a visible dimension that was before invisible. It was by surrendering vision of other parts of the world that we have come to see air’s shape. It was only as the light died and the earth we normally see retired from view that a new perspective emerged.

Spoke Epictetus: “It is impossible for a man to learn what he thinks he already knows.”

Without the willingness to momentarily forget what we already know we cannot hope to discover anything new.

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