"What's he up to?" I ask Markus, who is reading on the deck.
"Dragonfly," Markus replies.
We watch the creature make neat lines across the backyard about two feet above ground. I've seen the cats take interest in bugs before. They always look so surprised when they eat their catch. We rarely see dragonflies around here. When we do, they usually fly off to safety as we cheer them on.
"Suicidal," I say, as the pale speck continues to fly low next to the bushes.
The cat pounces, his sleek black body diving into the brush, bell jingling. And that is that.
"If the spirit of our departed son was hitching a ride on that dragonfly..." I say to Markus. Why else would it come into our yard like that and fly so close to the cat who shares his name?
"...Then he goes into his next incarnation," Markus says, glancing back at his magazine.
The exchange is somehow good-humored. Our son Simon was enamored of nature and of dragonflies and damselflies in particular. As I've written before, it's always easy to picture him somehow inhabiting the sleek body and filigree wings.
Dropped from the cat's mouth, the dragonfly lies supine in the grass, churning its bent-wire legs. Both cats sit nonchalantly nearby. I hope there's a chance the creature will recover, and I grasp its camouflage-striped body-tail so I can place it right side up.
The body sticks strangely to the grass, but I am able to right the creature and place it on the edge of the deck. I watch as it revs what must be fang-pierced wings. Pity.
I leave it on the deck plank, hoping the cats will show some respect and refrain from a fatal bite. Perhaps the dragonfly will rally.
I will check in the morning. Wouldn't it be great if the spot is empty because the dragonfly has recovered and flown away?
But, twinge of hope aside, it feels like another lesson in nothing else I can do.
Currently reading: What Comes Next and How to Like It by Abigail Thomas, master of micro-story and the written (psychological) moment.
Previous post: Dragonfly visitation, August 8, 2014
Dropped from the cat's mouth, the dragonfly lies supine in the grass, churning its bent-wire legs. Both cats sit nonchalantly nearby. I hope there's a chance the creature will recover, and I grasp its camouflage-striped body-tail so I can place it right side up.
The body sticks strangely to the grass, but I am able to right the creature and place it on the edge of the deck. I watch as it revs what must be fang-pierced wings. Pity.
I leave it on the deck plank, hoping the cats will show some respect and refrain from a fatal bite. Perhaps the dragonfly will rally.
I will check in the morning. Wouldn't it be great if the spot is empty because the dragonfly has recovered and flown away?
But, twinge of hope aside, it feels like another lesson in nothing else I can do.
Currently reading: What Comes Next and How to Like It by Abigail Thomas, master of micro-story and the written (psychological) moment.
Previous post: Dragonfly visitation, August 8, 2014
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