Place #4: July 12. Return to the Ravine Trail, 9:39 PM. Hot, Dark.

Kat made fun of me the first time I ever saw a firefly. It was about two weeks ago, after a soccer game, and we were sitting down to beers at the Waterfront when I saw this flickering, pale green light in front of me. Combined with the hit to the head from the car accident, the humidity, and running around in it, I thought it was a sign that maybe I should get my head checked. Sure enough, I see the long silhouette of an insect—suddenly relieved—its enlarged abdomen glowing. I didn’t know Pittsburgh could get fireflies. I tell Kat that this is my first time ever seeing a firefly. She gives a half-interested, “Oh, that’s nice,” assuming it was just the first of the season.

In the Northwest, we don’t get fireflies. I don’t know that they’re a signal to the start and halfway point of summer. I never captured them in jars at night with my sister, put them into Mason jars, and had an organic nightlight. I do have memories of flipping june bugs off of my mother’s deck, hearing that horrific, heated hiss and dodging the crane-fly, which resembles a giant mosquito that has an affinity for your face. (Go ahead, look at the Wikipedia page for crane-fly and tell that doesn’t look like summer fun.) You can imagine my surprise at seeing a bioluminescent animal in front of me as I’m about to sit down for a drink. I’m jaded about a lot of things, a world-class skeptic for sure, but there’s something about seeing the firefly that just makes me a little stupid with excitement. I’m certain I’ve seen them before about the city just when it started to get hot, but maybe I’ve just dismissed it as optic phenomena, much like those stars and strings we see at times.

On this particular night, they seem out in abundance and Lucas, as payment for allowing him to stay at my place the past couple of days, takes up Beechwood to the Ravine Trail. We decided not to enter the trail this late, sticking near the trim field of crabgrass and white clover before the walking path dips down, where the lightning bugs drift lazily. My sandals are on, but the ground is still wet from the scattered rains. The sun has gone down and there’s only a faint bit of light left, just enough to see where I’m going. As acquainted as I am with trees, I’m still not much of a fan of the woods at dark, especially with looming, near-electric sounds of cicadas moving their wings.

Lucas, like Kat, is from the Midwest and doesn’t share my enthusiasm. It almost feels like this is the playtime he’s allotted me after supper. I’m afraid of capturing of the insect in my hand, mindful about recent readings about messing with nature, afraid I’ll press too hard in my excitement, but will end up with glowing paste in my hands. I learn quickly that simple, soft contact, the firefly will just attach. I even get one between my hands, but I notice in its anxiety it doesn’t seem to glow. I’ve heard about synchronization, where fireflies over time will start glowing in unison. Not tonight though. Regardless, I prefer the asynchronous illumination. Since the first sighting, I see them in pairs and triads, but here in this flat introduction to the trail, there are at least a baker’s dozen. My feet are wet, I’m chasing bugs, it’s late and I’m playing outside and it’s enthralling. Someone needs to remind me I’m almost 26.