Tall grasses, ones that can only be found near marsh land and still water. A child plodding through them, hands first, pulling the grasses apart as if opening drapery. Her grandpa beside her, she marches through the green world, batting cattails out of her way, sending droplets of dew into the still air.
She is the bringer of color this morning. The vibrancy of a green just waking flows to those tall grasses through her fingertips. She looks up and the sky is opening its blue eyes. A trail of color, blazed through a marsh coming out of slumber.
But she forgets, in her moment, that hers is not the only trail forged this morning, for her grandpa walks beside her, stretching his limbs in accord with the distant trees. He marches beside her, no less ready, no less eager – a youth again in his old age.
Nearer the water, they choose a place to stop. This place will do, he thinks. I will stop here, she decides.
They wait for things to settle. They wait because they have stirred things up.
They wait.
They are here to catch dragonflies.
The first to come are the electric-blue ones, the ones that land at the tip of each grass and bend the delicate stalk with delicate weight. There are opaque-winged ones and ones with dots on them. Some have curled tails. Some have big eyes. Her favorite are the ones with big eyes. But I can never catch them, she thinks, because they always see me coming.
Somewhere to her right, her grandpa is pointing. Look at that dragonfly, he is saying. She opens her hand, but the dragonfly, as if fully aware of her intentions, takes momentary flight and lands elsewhere.
