The dragonfly doesn't know
The dragonfly doesn't know but carries a ribbon of light, curling back to itself then veering off suddenly towards the infinite receding horizon. The ribbon burns red and smolders black on its way to a home it never entirely reaches, except later, when its own smokey trail blows in over us there, waiting. Your angle, sudden, jarring, absolutely deliberate but without contemplation, instinctively pulls you downward into the opening you now search to find your next angle. The rattling hiss of the trembling aspen behind me is a ceremonial instrument announcing the wind from it's far place returning, hiding all the whispers it carried back to me with expectations of an unending reciprocity. Your hands, from their great distance are moving, without your thinking, to the rhythm of a distant clock whose gentle bell purrs as it unwinds the last tension from the great coil of time.
