There are noises in the woods. It is thick nite, but still bright - this full moon. Still beyond the tree line, I see not why twigs bust. If it were me migrating midnite with no visible path, I imagine I would sound like a combine. Well, their massive muscular bodies are often a hundred pounds my superior, but the deer's lithe feet make barely a sound.

There are mosquitos with no patience in humid Michigan July. But I grew up in this town, near this swamp, in this forest, and like the migrating deer, I have instincts, too. I pull down my sleeves, wear the long pants - there is no need for chemicals repelling here. It is sultry sullen steam room too hot for these sweat pants, but the mosquitos will find no skin bare. I blur like tired twilight, I disappear like sullen shadow - under this hood insects do not know I'm here.

Dear Emily...and Robert....and all my friends back in Los Angeles: remember how I said there is another way? Remember how I insisted that the entire world doesn't "work like this?" Well, here I am, breathing green summer, swearing it's the truth.

Lightning bugs are little fairies, even if you don't believe. Which I don't. But I've seen both anyway. It is said they light up for only one nite, to attract a mate, and then die before the dawn. I found one today crawling around in my mother's kitchen, so I put him outdoors, where he belongs. I couldn't imagine his one chance to shine unashamed, to glow to show off, spent anywhere but with others shining as flamboyantly as he.

Look at him now, perishing happily at my feet.

Life is my one nite. There is no jar that will contain me.

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