For several months

I’ve watched you,

always with awe, 

emerging from your aquatic form

and miraculously transforming

into a flying insect

that eats nothing

but other insects 

while combing 

woodland gaps.

Reaching maturity,

you find your way

back to the water’s edge

and hunt for a mate. 

Some say you aren’t territorial

but I know otherwise 

for I spend hours observing

as you land 

upon a leaf or twig

and then , , ,  

in a split second

chase a sibling 

or cousin off

before returning 

to your original perch

or at least another 

close by.

It’s in those spots

that I get to 

know you better, 

noticing your tan-colored legs,

which set you apart

from other 

Skimmer family members.

With a face 

of burgundy red

providing a contrast to 

that ruby red abdomen.

and your stigma,

those elongated spots

at the tip of your wings,

offering two-toned hues 

of the same theme,

you gleam like a jewel

in the sunlight.

At long last, 

you find yourself 

In the canoodle wheel, 

a dragonfly’s lovemaking form.

You grasp your betrothed

behind her head

while she places 

the tip of her abdomen 

under yours 

in a manner that allows 

your sperm to fertilize 

her eggs.

You, like your relatives,

stay with her 

in tandem

making sure 

it is the eggs

you fertilized

that she lays

upon the mosses

and other vegetation 

at the water’s edge.

Sometimes its

a group activity

with safety found 

in numbers I suppose.

Eating and mating,

your life 

as a mature being

isn’t long.

But still 

you live longer than 

most and don’t let

a few frosty nights

end your flight. 

Sometimes, though, 

a wrong turn

on the wing

and you end up 

on the water’s surface

struggling to fly free.

I watch for a few moments

until I realize 

what your 

frenzied behavior means.

It is then

I grasp a stick 

and offer it to you.

You follow suit 

and grasp from the other end

as I lift you out 

and find a sunny place 

for your wings 

to dry 

before night sets in.

When I visit again

I cannot find you

but can only hope

that the tiny red dragonfly

that poses like a brooch

on my blaze orange vest . . .

and then adorns my finger

is you . . . or at least another

saying thank you 

for the rescue.

On this 

fourth day of November,

 I celebrate you, 

‘Autumn Meadowhawk (Sympetrum vicinum)

for you are indeed

a gem-like wonder.