Lights blinking, on, off, on, female signaling to male, come get me, come breed, allow us to continue, a species in the most primitive dance of life, calling to one another. Come. Luring, waiting, calling, and then, there, he comes, and she flies. Mid-air they hover about each other, and then attach, and she flies forth as he does his work. It is tiring, carrying him, and she attempts to find a place to land until he has finished.
It is sticky on the trunk of the tree, and she cannot pull away once she has landed. Panic flares, and she struggles, writhing, wings fluttering, knocking him to the side. His shell hits the sap and he wriggles helplessly in it, further securing himself against the tree. For a long while, they struggle, work aborted, wings fluttering and limbs kicking.
The sap sucks them in, slowly, and their struggles slow, until he is gone and she fans her wings slowly, so slowly, tired and dying and waiting, and it won't be long now. Truth, for only her wings remain, and then there is nothing but the hush of the wind, the fluttering of leaves, and two fireflies trapped, picturesque in death, encased in drying amber.