Under the star-pocked sky the people watch. Things – they are unsure what exactly they are made of – fly up into the blackness, and, in a moment of limbo, hang and wait. Then, triumphantly, they explode. Each fiery fizzle streaks down in a superb circle. A thousand eyes glitter huddled together against November’s air, then down the sparkles glow and fade and die.
The stars only watch. How silly the lights in the sky must seem to they that last an eternity. But the people do not marvel at the stars this night; only the fires in the sky, the temporary explosions of life as each one burns itself to nothing, leaving a ghostly faint in the clouds above. The next must shine brighter than the smoke the last ones left.
Chubby children on their father’s shoulders giggle as the bang of the last firework is played across the muddy field like a drum. This one is spectacular; a pure white haze in the sky which twists and glides in a thousand pieces of silver. Fall to them, fireworks, and they will never forget.