The Dragonflies are Home and I am Not
The dragonflies are probably preparing for bed. During the languid stretch of mid-afternoon, they typically hold a sky parade over the enclave of banana plants and their neighbor, the lone papaya tree. But that was easily a couple of hours ago. Now that the sun has disappeared behind the distant clouds, I imagine them resting their thousands of eyes and settling into their cozy lairs of torpor for the evening—under a leaf, or in a bush, or even, for the residual mermaids, in the water. They have been good neighbors, and I adore them. I don't think they mind my excessive fawning. Everyone knows they kick ass.
Me, I am not with them. I am a passenger on a motorbike, admiring the mottled sky to my right, which is occasionally blocked by tall buildings. Jackson Pollack before Jackson Pollack. "It's a gimmick all the same," it says. "It just so happens that I am an extraordinary, as far as gimmicks go." I peek at the driver's phone and note that we will make a right turn in 300 meters. Right is due west. Direct express to the golden hour. Above us, the bats have arrived, and they are not shy about announcing it. Diving and torquing, they create lyrical traffic far more tender than ours. "It's not a competition, Monica!" they chortle.
It most definitely is not.
The night is just beginning, and we Homo sapiens hand over the keys to the city. Once the ritual is completed, I go home to sleep alongside the dragonflies, the apex predators of banana land. Comments
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