Dragonfly
The wind blew. Rain tapped lightly against outstretched limbs and the pale, withered leaves of the oak trees that marked the path to the old cemetery. Evergreens, which made up most of the green, whipped and rocked. The cracked asphalt of Highway 12 darkened as the shower became a downpour, the smooth flowing water of the Snake River rippled and danced.
The day darkened, then lightened, then darkened again as the sun played impish games behind bloated, gray clouds. A car passed, a lone entity on the lonesome highway, then it was gone, and there was nothing and no one.
A dragonfly, radiant blue and nearly as large as a hummingbird, took shelter under the boughs of an ancient and knotted oak, lit upon its steady trunk, and waited.
At length the wind softened, swaying trees
