Dried grass yields fireflies
I always think that it must be a summer night, when the sky is deeply dark, like velvet, like rose, like dry wind which passes through the grassland. Such a scene, just in my mind!
And in the last days in his life, Basho had a poem like that:
falling sick on a journey
my dream goes wandering
over a field of dried grass
Then here is a blog about the journey of a firefly :)