murakami, haruki - Norwegian wood

Maybe this firefly was on the verge of death. I gave the jar a few
shakes. The firefly bumped against the glass walls and tried to fly, but
its light remained dim.
I tried to remember when I had last seen fireflies, and where it might
have been. I could see the scene in my mind, but was unable to recall
the time or place. I could hear the sound of water in the darkness and
see an old-fashioned brick sluice gate. It had a handle you could turn
to open and close the gate. The stream it controlled was small enough
to be hidden by the grass on its banks. The night was dark, so dark I
couldn't see my feet when I turned out my torch. Hundreds of fireflies
drifted over the pool of water held back by the sluice gate, their hot
glow reflected in the water like a shower of sparks.
I closed my eyes and steeped myself in that long-ago darkness. I heard
the wind with unusual clarity. A light breeze swept past me, leaving
strangely brilliant trails in the dark. I opened my eyes to find the
darkness of the summer night a few degrees deeper than it had been.
I twisted open the lid of the jar and took out the firefly, setting it on
the two-inch lip of the water tank. It seemed not to grasp its new
surroundings. It hobbled around the head of a steel bolt, catching its
legs on curling scabs of paint. It moved to the right until it found its
way blocked, then circled back to the left. Finally, with some effort, it
mounted the head of the bolt and crouched there for a while,
unmoving, as if it had taken its last breath.
Still leaning against the handrail, I studied the firefly. Neither I nor it
made a move for a very long time. The wind continued sweeping past
the two of us while the numberless leaves of the zelkova tree rustled
in the darkness.
I waited for ever.
Only much later did the firefly take to the air. As if some thought had
suddenly occurred to it, the firefly spread its wings, and in a moment
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