Article: The flight of the firefly

The car lights were not out for two seconds when we saw that we were surrounded by thousands of new bulbs. The Milky Way above was a pale film of dots, compared with the galaxy below. Green, yellow, white and orange sparkles carpeted the ground. Hundreds more flickerings decorated 40 and 50 foot pines. It was Christmas in June. Rudolph could have landed and no one would have seen his nose.

It was the mating dance of the firefly, although at that moment on a field at the foot of Maine's White Mountain National Forest, I did not know it. Until then, I had been content to admire fireflies for the moment they blink, with no further thought as to why they do what they do. This display, with the ...

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