The Marsh And The Heat
Dragonflies rise from those dying tangles of swords, seemingly as infinite as the grass blades and sedges themselves, and they are the only movement out over the great plain of the marsh, swirling around in no ordered migration but merely each to his or her whirling, clattering own, stirred as if by the heat, and filling the air with the sunlit prism-glitter of their lace wings, each dragonfly illuminated in this manner as if from within, as if burning, and as if fueled by that beautiful jewel-fire....