Shirley Buxton

A dragonfly led me there. At first the dragonfly had taken to a flit–oh quite a graceful flit–a slender and silver one, akin to gossamer and to moonbeams, so that when he had circumnavigated me a band or two, and had then flung about my neck the willowy thread of a lasso, I hardly felt challenged or in any way disturbed. Just so I arrived, having been towed by way of a cottony strand, grasped in the mouth of a celery green, transparent dragonfly.

As soon as I saw the place, I knew it was occupied, for there was an earthy scent of being, and faint wafts of conversation pitched through the languid afternoon air, although I could see no one. The dragonfly released the lasso from around my neck and invited me to stay.

“Stay for the party,” he said.

I’m not at all sure how I knew it was a boy dragonfly with whom I was having a conversation, but I considered that, perhaps, it was the tenor of his voice…or was it simply his way or the style of his hair? Something was familiar about the dragonfly, and although I don’t have a personal acquaintance with too many bugs, I felt somehow…what was it?…somehow I had seen this particular dragonfly before. Hmm…I scoured my memory bank delving into wingy compartments and lady bug places and squirrel and mice hidey-holes and such, and stories I had read and stories I had told…and then… I remembered–I had met him on Linda’s blog. She had taken his photograph posed against tree bark, and although (according to Linda) it’s not one of his better images, I knew it would serve to help you visualize him, so I communicated with Linda and have his picture here.

I guess I had been rudely staring while I was considering the origination of my acquaintance with him, for now he sort of arrogantly shook his little wings and said again, “Stay for the party.”

“What party?”

“The Thanksgiving party, the dinner, of course.”

On the spot I accepted and barely had I breathed forth the words when I felt myself drifting to the ground……..

My perspective changed so that when I was through slinking down, my line of vision was at mushroom level and plainly I could see the brown ridges of its underside. To be sure of myself I reached up and brushed my hand across the surface, and yes, those was the fine netted lines of a mushroom cap. I couldn’t feel that I was smaller—felt just the same as always—and I’m not even sure I was smaller, except that I was now sitting beneath a mushroom. So, wouldn’t I have to be smaller?

Now arose sounds of increased activity. A clarity of vision gave my eyes unique focusing power and I saw that extending beyond the mushroom where I sat on the damp earth were many mushrooms and other sproutings. These served as a roof over the civilization with which I was now a part. The light was splendid, soft and white, throwing elegant shadows and I felt around for my camera but I didn’t seem to have it with me. Rats! I wanted to show you how it looks beneath a mushroom field.

There, more sounds of activity, then I saw what they were up to. They were bringing in the chairs—those sling-back classic kind, but these were tiny. Think tiny, I mean. I’m not real good with measurements but I’d guess they were two or three inches high, and now the workers had placed several of them in a row—seven or eight, I think. The workers left. The perfectly aligned chairs were empty except for the one nearest me, for immediately on its being set up, Dragonfly had flopped into that one and had taken on the lounging position of raised arms with hand clasped behind the head. He turned his beautiful head my way and smiled.

Chairs courtesy of Free Images

(Since I didn’t have my camera and I don’t have Photoshop, wouldn’t it be nice if someone who is reading this could “Photoshop” the dragonfly and drag him into one of these chairs. Don’t be too rough on him, but it might serve him right for throwing a lasso around my unsuspecting neck, even though he was gentle and didn’t really alarm me. Let me know and I’ll send you my email address if you don’t already have it. )

After a minute of smiling at me, the dragonfly turned back around, stared into the distance for a while, then as his smile faded he took on a conspiratorial style and addressed me again. “It’s the atheists.” Head supported by his long, supple arms, he spoke to me from the corner of his mouth. “The atheists, you understand. We’re having problems with them.”

“Atheists?” My face must have taken on a look of incredulity, for certainly that is how I felt, and I heard the skepticism in my voice as I repeated. “Atheists? You’re having problems with an atheist?” I didn’t say it aloud, but I thought this is one egotistical dragonfly—trying to impress me by talking of human concerns. What could a dragonfly know of atheists?

To be continued as I learn what happened…