The afternoon is moist and drenched with the fragrance of lilacs,
and low clouds hang in sky. The world feels dreamlike,
its colors muted, its birdsong subdued. Rainstorms are coming,
but not until nightfall. You can feel their approach in the air.
And something else, too, is approaching, but you can’t say what.
All you can do is stand there, still, waiting, watching.
From the corner of your eye, you catch a movement,
a dark, darting streak and you turn your head to see, there,
on the peony leaves, a damsel fly, the year’s first, its tail
an iridescent turquoise and blue, its sheer wings black
in the day’s low light. It seems a sign somehow,
a signal that magic is afoot. Quick! Make a wish!
Ask to hold onto this moment forever.