The sky outside my kitchen window turned an astonishing cloudy cool periwinkle blue tonight, and I stopped in the middle of doing dishes and making egg salad for lunch, to run out into it. Once outside, on the back porch, I discovered that the sky was the kind of color that makes everything under it the same color: sometimes the sky is an unreachable palette of color, sometimes it is a color that brings every other color into its fullest expression, but sometimes, it dyes the world beneath it. This night, the concrete, the untreated wood of my porch, the cars below, my arms and legs and my beloved's torn shorts on my legs, everything glowed, vibrated with this periwinkle blue.
I thrust myself into it, sitting down on the porch steps to let the blue soak into and glow off my skin. It was marvelous. I listened to birds, and bugs, and sirens and whines of planes arriving and departing, slicing their metal noses through the low clouds above.
And then, silent as grass growing, one at a time, the fireflies went off. Green: beep, beep.... beep,......... beep, beep. Their little rumps glowed one after another, each looking for her partner, hoping to find his mate.
I ran into the kitchen, and dragged my mate out of it, whose hands were still wet with soapy water. We sat, nearly silently, letting the sky turn our skin blue, whispering at the fireflies.
Summer is so perfect, and complicated and fleeting. I wish every day that I had more of it, that I lived in a place with summer six months out of the year, instead of three or less. I know I'd never take all that for granted.