The other day, my son walked into the house, gingerly holding something in his hands. It was a dead dragonfly. I was absolutely thrilled because it was just so beautiful.
I realised that this was a rare moment for us to see, up close, the colours and textures of such an amazing little creature. I ran to get my camera, set it to “macro”, and snapped away.
But as I looked through the lens, I saw that some plates on its tail were moving, ever-so gently and slowly. I was stunned. My goodness, it was still alive – just.
Its life was fading away second by second, and I felt guilty to be taking advantage of it in such a vulnerable moment.
But I was captivated by the colours and shapes and structures in the wings, and how they reminded me of the finest of lace, the curve of aircraft wings, and of spider webs.
There were tiny, tiny teeth along the edges of the wings, and strange blue dots, and some incredibly thin, glass like material between the strands of the webs in the wings.
I was completely in awe at the sheer beauty of creation. Of life. Of death.