by Eliongema Udofia

Midnight, and stars like celestial torches,
dot this dark stretching blanket of sky.
The fields, lit here and there by the glowing
lanterns of fireflies, hold a choir of frogs.
We scout the sky with our eyes, searching
for the brief blessing of a shooting star.
Our lips eager to exhale wishes molded on
the floor of the heart. Even my little
cousin, offers us gummed giggles from the
comfort of his footie pajamas; as if he
understands what we rummage for in the
skies. Mother, to quench our desperation,
says they won’t be any meteors visiting
tonight. And we swallow our wishes, and
pray for better nights. I blink at the
ascending embers of the dying campfire,
and I cannot help but think of father, he
would be sitting here, feeding the fire with
wood. I take another glance at the starry
sky, and the stars seem to gather into the shape
of a beaver. The fire crackles, more embers
rise as if to say, we belong there, among
the stars. I pretend they are the dying
flickers of a shooting star and make a wish,
that our bodies be blessed with the ability
to outwit it losses. Another frog croaks,
for the first time, a toad answers.

Image by Scott Lord via Pexels