The Pond

by Tom Spencer

 

Cellophane wings beating

against the heavy summer air,

back and forth, all day long,

the blue dragonflies

chase one another across the pond-

their tails turned up

like neon scimitars

poised for a thrust

that never seems to come.

Occasionally, a truce is called,

and they settle into place

on opposite sides of the pickerel rush,

momentarily oblivious to their war.

Twice their size,

the red dragonfly idles in the sun.

From time to time it leaves its perch

to challenge the silhouette

hanging from the iris blade,

its spent skin,

as if it were a bad memory

rising from the green depths of the pond.

Below the surface,

the fish school together- a current of gold

slipping between the lily pads,

each aware of its place in the stream.

My reflection circles them all.

Drawn to the water

that both mirrors and obscures

I lose my place for a moment-

hovering between obligations and idleness

on cellophane wings.

 

 

 

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