Just past dusk I passed Christiansburg，

    cluster of lights sharpening

    as the violet backdrop of the Blue Ridge

    darkened. Not stars

    but blue-black mountains rose

    before me， rose like sleep

    after hours of driving， hundreds of miles

    blurred behind me. My eyelids

    were so heavy but I could see

    far ahead a summer thunderstorm flashing，

    lightning sparking from cloud

    to mountaintop. I drove toward it，

    into the pass at Ironto， the dark

    now deeper in the long steep grades，

    heavy in the shadow of mountains weighted

    with evergreens， with spruce， pine，

    and cedar. How I wished to sleep

    in that sweet air， which filled——

    suddenly over a rise——with the small

    lights of countless fireflies. Everywhere

    they drifted， sweeping from the trees

    down to the highway my headlights lit.

    Fireflies blinked in the distance

    and before my eyes， just before

    the windshield struck them and they died.

    Cold phosphorescent green， on the glass

    their bodies clung like buds bursting

    the clean line of a branch in spring.

    How long it lasted， how many struck

    and bloomed as I drove on， hypnotic

    stare fixed on the road ahead， I can't say.

    Beyond them， beyond their swarming

    bright deaths came the rain， a shower

    which fell like some dark blessing.

    Imagine when I flicked the windshield wipers on

    what an eerie glowing beauty faced me.

    In that smeared， streaked light

    diminished sweep by sweep you could have seen

    my face. It was weary， shocked， awakened，

    alive with wonder far after the blades and rain

    swept clean the light of those lives

    passed， like stars rolling over

    the earth， now into other lives.