(for Sue Reynolds and James Dewar,
stewards of the pond)

Sitting atop the small dam
next to the pond, I watch
a squadron of dragonflies
flit like tiny biplanes, coming
to rest in the sun next to me.

The large blue dashers hover
closest to the water, their
four wings fanning the surface,
helicopter-style.

The smaller, rust-colored
autumn meadowhawks alight
for no more than a minute,
efficient hunters said to catch
97% of what they pursue.

Fall is beginning to take hold
of the pond. Most of the insects
of summer, the peskiest ones—
the horse flies, mayflies, black flies—
have fallen; the dragonflies
will soon be gone, too.

But look—just there, next
to me on the weathered
planks—two dashers and
two meadowhawks have
landed, arranging themselves
into a tidy flightline, engines
revving, preparing to take off
again.

The longer I sit, inhaling
the warmth of the day,
the more they show up,
the closer they come—
one on my knee, three
decorating my shoulder
like so many living brooches.

I close my eyes, feel a lacy-
winged being tickling
the knuckles of my left hand,
alive in this moment by this
sweet pond, with nothing to
do but return to the breath,
me and my happily full heart.