The Dragonfly

Hot afternoon. A dry, north wind animates washing on the line. My cotton shirt seems desperate, arms flailing, trying to grab at anything to fill its emptiness. The heat makes life withdraw, retreat into the shady margins, curl up and go to sleep. What's left are limp puppets, hollowed out forms waiting for a cool change to come when bodies can slip back inside and refill the baggy to a tight fit. Only a dragonfly braves the heat, fanning the air with its quivering wings, hanging there, suspended as if to attract an admiring eye before bulleting off to its next engagement on natures catwalk of aerobatic skills.