I was looking for some pretty-colored fireworks to put in here, but then I kept thinking about how, when the Revolutionary War re-enactments are going on down at the old fort in the village, every time I hear the whump of a gun or a cannon, it is a remembrance of war. And, really . . . haven't we had enough of that by now?
So instead of lauding the rockets' red glare and the bombs bursting in air, I'm going to celebrate that I was lucky enough to be born in this country, have always had enough clean water, enough to eat, a place to live, more than enough clothing, the luxury and joy of pets and private transportation and the freedom to live with one other person in the middle of forty-eight acres of hay fields that belong to us.
More or less.
If you don't count having to pay the bank and the taxes.
Around 9:30 tonight, we will sit on the back lawn and watch the tippy tops of the fireworks from the park in the village. Molly will cool her belly on the dewy grass, I'll stretch out completely flat and feel at one with the earth. Peep will come and go and wonder why we are all out in the open like that in the dark, and not jumping on tiny bugs in the grass.
I'll celebrate the fact that tonight when it gets dark, my fireworks will be at the ends of little magical bugs that fly over the tops of the grass . . . and fly, sometimes, far, far up into the sky. I wonder if, every now and then, one of them spies the stars and is drawn that way.
Who is to say it isn't true?
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