The Natural World

I hold the jar for him as he scampers across the summer lawn, chasing the flying bits of phosphorescence, cupping them gently in his hands, finally releasing them into the captivity of the glass I hold.

Their firefly legs slip along the glass walls of their prison; I resolve to release them soon so their little insect brains don't burn out the minuscule motors in a vain attempt to escape.

As I screw the lid back on, he smacks his neck, wiping blood and plassteel from his skin - he almost swears, but catches himself just in time.

"Why did they have to make mosquitoes, Dad?"

I think about what I could answer - rationalizations about ecosystems, the way we'd noticed one year there were no more fireflies, fewer bugs, the entire bottom of the ecosystem wiped clean by pesticides and antiseptics, and how we'd tried to fix it, meticulously replacing each destroyed part with little robots - but I don't.

"Because they're part of Nature too, honey. Now go inside and wash your hands before supper. I'll be inside in a moment."