There's a grassy field out behind my Mom's house, and just beyond is a brushy wood interspersed with pricky pear cactus and wildflowers that extends downhill a quarter mile to shore of Lake Benbrook.

I sat out there Friday evening at twilight relaxing a bit, enjoying the serenading crickets, and the oncoming darkness.

That's when I saw them.

Fireflies!

My goodness, I honestly can't remember the last time I saw fireflies!

And for many delightful minutes I watched in amazement as they flitted and danced through the trees along the field, flashing their little lights all about, and bringing the smile of a kid to my face.

It was one of those moments of childish wonder that occur much too infrequently in our busy adult worlds.

Don't you remember? How we kids would dash out the door after supper on a hot summer's evening to catch fireflies. We'd gently cup our hands around them and catch them from the air, then put them safely into our jar with some grass. Dad would punch a few air holes holes in the metal lid, and we'd take our prized jar inside and set it on the nightstand next to our beds. And watch with the big-eyed wonder that only a kid can have, until sleep took over...