[Keeping the sparkler at arm's length, he nevertheless leans in a little to marvel at the golden sparks that so resemble petals scattering in the wind. They bring to mind the yellow shrubs of his hometown, of a time when children raced across the meadow in a chorus of laughter. The sparks climb the stick as the latter burns, and his eyes travel to follow their trajectory, clear and bright against the dark backdrop of the night.]
no subject
. . . Beautiful.