Summer nights on the Eastern Shore are orgies of sex and death. Everyone can see that just by stepping outside.
Consider, for a voyeuristic thrill, Mrs. Byrne's field. What goes on there on the far side of my barn would make anybody but a naturalist blush. In daytime all that's apparent are tall grasses and darting bluebirds, goldfinches, swallows and redwing blackbirds. Ah, but the nights. Then come the seductive, and the lethal, lights.
Fireflies.
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