"Where are all the Fireflies?" Silky asks. 

   We're on High Hill, Silky, Peter Pan and I, walking and talking and wondering out loud. The sun has set. It's growing dark. Thanks to a late bit of warmth, there are still a few Fireflies. Five or six. Certainly not the hundreds of June and July. 

     "There gone for the summer, Silk," I tell her. 

     Clearly she is disappointed. 

    "The stars are coming out though," I say. "They're a little like fireflies." 

     Silky looks to where I am pointing, off to the east where the sky is most dark, and indeed there is a handful of scattered stars that sparkle like the mischief in her eyes.

     "Oh!" Silky exclaims, and she sits to watch them multiply as the night gathers around us. 

     Later, as we're walking toward the house, Silky asks, "Will the stars leave for the Summer, too?" 

     I have seen them fall and wink out. Gone. I have wished on their passing, when maybe I should have whispered a prayer. I cannot, however, imagine the night sky empty. Black as coal. Even after the Sun, stars, I believe, will shine. 

     "No Silky Josephine," I tell her. "You can count on the Stars." And we look up once more, to carry them with us, like diamonds, to bed.