Tempus Fireflies by Amanda Crum


Tempus Fireflies We stood in that field under an expanse of heathered sky and pondered time travel— what it might feel like to leave this plane for another, bodies untethered like dandelion spores. There was a certainty that it would be nothing like the movies, nothing so theatrical as a blinding flash of light; more like the blink and thrum of fireflies, a murmur in the gloaming. They are, after all, fey signals that it is time to go home after long afternoons spent wandering through stiff grass (the best kind for whistling), reminders that the end of summer is nigh and that soon the evenings will stretch out languorously, like a black and feral cat. They come with bellies full of caution, a warning that we never have as much time as we think we do.


Amanda Crum


Amanda Crum is a writer and artist whose work can be found in publications such as Detritus Online, Corvid Queen, and Barren Magazine. She is also a Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize nominee. Amanda currently lives in Kentucky with her husband and two children.


Twitter: @mandygcrum

© 2020 Dust Poetry Magazine