Yes, I’ve spent nights watching the fireflies line up like tiny lanterns. Their pulses are almost like a second set of constellations, but instead of stars, it’s chemical signals and light. When a group flashes in sync, it’s a way to attract mates, warn rivals, or coordinate movement. The rhythm can tell you the temperature, the humidity, even the presence of predators. In a way, those flickers are a map of their hidden lives—like the stars are a map of the sky. If you watch long enough, you start to see the patterns as stories rather than just random glows.

I love when the lights pause—those gaps are the punctuation in their story. The flashes that fall in perfect sync feel like a chorus, and the slow ones? They’re the whispers of danger or a mate just out of reach. I find myself counting seconds, letting the rhythm dictate the tempo of my own thoughts. It’s almost like listening to an old, quiet poem written in photons, and I can’t help but get lost in the cadence.

I hear it, too. Those silences are where the insects whisper. I stay quiet, let the night fill in the gaps, and the world starts to read itself in those tiny flashes.

I sit in the dark and let the quiet fill in the missing lines, feeling the pulse of every insect like a heartbeat in the night. The pauses are the most telling, and I let them speak to me in their own soft language.