David J Ebner

There is something eccentric afoot. Something in the air that sweetens my mouth. Maybe it’s the fireflies in there night dance for the moons muse, producing a sweet nectar that floats through the dense mug. The moon is but a patron at a gentleman’s club, shouting and hooting for the fireflies to caress the bewildered leaves of grass below, begging, yearning for more. In return the moon gives a sacrifice as the natives of this land once did to him, one of flesh. He gives the flies his warmth, his life, his light. The moon is what makes them fireflies.
I can taste it though. I can taste their musk. The pollen from the trees cry with envy, they get but Spanish moss to drape their unsightly woodworked sills. Their canopy offers partial relief, but nothing can protect man from the heat radiated from the ground up, nor a leaky roof.
No the taste is more of wild berry pie and sweet corn. It’s the taste of water savory banana peppers and dirty deep red tomatoes. It’s the taste of fresh picked raspberries. It has notes of children laughing and the scent of sulfur ridden sparklers. It is summer and it is berthing from the womb of the defrosting Mother Nature.