Fireworks may be magic, but they’re a fleeting one. Momentary shows of light, they dazzle us for mere seconds and then they’re gone. What remains in their wake is a haze of smoke that hangs around our shoulders. It smudges out everything behind it. It’s a disorienting ending to a decently mystified diversion. Obfuscating and concealing.

We take steady flames for granted. We tire of their crackle into the deep night. We’re accustomed to their glow. But if there is a magic among us, it’s the slow burn. It’s the times devoid of gaudy displays and obvious divination. There, in those moments, nothing profound need happen for the flame to be alight. No more is needed to kindle its even gleaming.

We’re easily distracted. We’re attracted to the brightest things. We stray from what seems ordinary to what seems divine. But the extraordinary are fixtures that linger around us. They’re the slow burns. Any day of the week, I’ll take something solid over something glittering. I’ll happily decline overt incantations for the company of a persistent flame.