I'm only an Imagist when I can't come up with a metaphor

The air is pungent with humidity.
Thunder stumbles across the sky.
I wish it would rain so I could open
my windows to the June night breeze.

In the just-twilight, fireflies litter
my yard like constellations twisting
in the dark matter streams between galaxies
but I won't see the stars tonight.

Graceful as ballerinas practicing
before a wall of mirrors, a parcel
of deer pose along the fence line,
one of them white as lightning,

and I don't even bother
to take a picture.