The narrator, a girl who “was little, last summer,” recounts waiting on a very hot summer day for full dark, when her parents would take her and her brother to see the firefly mountain. She describes the anticipation of the “long, yellow afternoon,” lemonade, supper and then the rich dark alight with fireflies and stars. Marred somewhat by too precious language—“a hundred hundred . . . Or maybe a jillion hundred” fireflies, or an afternoon that “takes just as long as it takes” to get to evening—it doesn’t quite make it as poetry, nor as a child’s true voice. The thick oil paints, in great swathes of gold and yellow, brown and dark blue, delineate house and barn, field and butterfly, and finally the great mass of fireflies. The strength of the impasto images is weakened some by the heart-shaped firefly formation under the parents’ outstretched arms. Just a bit too much. (Picture book. 6-9)
