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Fireflies flash on warm summer nights, flipping switches to share the gifts they've been given.

Upon such nights, a table set amongst these winged acolytes may be found beneath backyard trees peppered with paper lanterns and Christmas lights that join branches to chain-links, surrounding a gathering in hopes to somehow hold back the night-curtain just long enough to render the party sufficient.

Those who have gathered have been called brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, but are best known as sons and daughters. This banded community composed of all same but different, delectates in a feast burnished with laughter. All bring. All receive. All drink. All eat.

Here it is that some have tasted and some have seen. But the sky is not just blue, nor the sun just yellow. As it is, there is still a sound not yet heard, and a face still unseen.

Though torched flames stave Texan mosquitoes, the light set by man has no power to forego that which occurs when the earth turns moonward. But there is no sorrow for the partygoers when the festivity turns to rest. For when the curtain is pulled back and the morning comes, all delighted people will say, "A light, alight!"