A piece of ground moved. No, it was a frog, the color of earth, at home along the silten shore.
Two silver dragonflies danced and collided, briefly, a click of wing on wing. They swooped, dove, hovered, too random and swift for my camera. Sunshine warmed their rock playground. My feet dried, my dripping legs a magnet for non-dragon flies. I kept whacking a huge one, but he kept buzzing back over, his veneer insect-overlord dark, flecked with green.
“Dude, this is epic.” Across the water, four college-aged adventurers investigated. One of them, my son, led the other three in circumnavigating the lake’s outpost of quiet and calm.
I waited to chauffeur them, in my father’s pickup, back to their wi-fi coverage, music videos, and role playing games and in time for an evening Bible study.
That first sentence is gorgeous; and in the second, I love the click of “wing on wing.”
Thanks, Beth. I hadn’t seen and heard dragonflies do that before…
“Dude this is epic.”
This reminds me of walking through the ruins of Pompeii and hearing a slouchy American teenage boy (part of what looked like a tour group of his parents and their friends), say, “Man, this is f—ing history!”
I like that you’re writing these regular posts–thanks!
Yes, Fresca, I was wishing I could scribble notes as I drove, listening to the lingo. It was great.
This was classic. The grit in the sacred.