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  • Sometimes I feel Jurassic, or Pre Cambrian. Sometimes I feel swarmed, overwhelmed, made small by the dark shadows below which are far larger than the thing which made them. I suppose this is like memory, something that morphs and grows much larger than it originally was.

    During hot summer days dragonflies buzz the garden. Sometimes three or more at a time. In perfect ovals they pace the sky about fifteen feet off the ground, diving and rising like subtle roller coasters as they skim mosquitoes. Their long wings are inaudible, unimaginable. At dusk a dozen glue themselves to the west side of the fence, taking in every last moment of sunlight and warmth.

    A dragonfly perches on the very tip of the topmost liatris bloom. The pink marbled bulb has yet to open, and though the insect seems precarious in the wind, those thin dragonfly legs latch on easily. Not one part of the dragonfly shutters or moves, not even the wings catching a sudden gust, wings that in their stillness seem to be navigating the air as if in perfect flight. The whole garden is that much more calm and assured, even as perennials bend and tangle into one another. I’ll wait with the dragonfly and be made smaller by the ancient shadow resting in this place.
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