First Fireworks After Covid

The eastern sky was a periwinkle blue, then purple, then navy.

In the west, streaks of pink and yellow and faded to grey.

The park air was heavy with the scent of bug spray, but bright with the sound of laughter and shouts of hello. Friends offered welcome, sharing blankets and Off and snacks. Osprey peered nervously down from their perch.

 In small-town style, kids ran and found each other, gleefully hugging friends they hadn't seen in a scant week since school closed for the summer. They played on swings and monkey bars, squealing and shrieking and loving the strange magic of being out late, and being out late with everyone.

It felt like the entire town was there, hunkered down on blankets, relaxed into camp chairs, perched on picnic tables. 

Somebody lit whizz-bangs in the tennis court, an appetizer of delight that set off little waves of glee. "Was that the fireworks?" a high little voice asked, and a chuckle rippled kindly in its wake.

And then the first firework shot into the sky, fizzling and sssh-ing and exploding with a blam.

All eyes were transfixed, as the whole town stared at the lights shimmering and booming and blooming in the sky.

I think the firework technician had the best view. Lights playing and dancing across a thousand uplifted faces; the crowd plunging into darkness and then suddenly alight with awe and joy.

The fireworks were beautiful.

But a park full of people sparkling with wonder? Glory.