The faint flutter of dragonfly wings drifts through the sweet dry air in the woods above Lake Baikal. A rain drop or two plops on my head and hand. The sun explodes on a far far away cumulus cloud rising above the massive mountain range tumbling into a distant Baikal horizon of swirling greys and silvers on her unknown waters.
I see a pair in a mating lock head to tail on the ground where I stand. Her wings fluttering at an invisible speed. Always on the ready. He, upside down under her, flicks his wings as a long-legged red spider inadvertently bumps into them on his late night preamble. Mosquitoes buzz about my head. And there’s a sense of a light dry dust being carried on the sweet pine scent. Pine cones lay cracking on the surface. The loving pair suddenly take off. She flies wih purpose and he holds on in his copulative embrace. They disappear into the needled canopy above me.
The air is so still. Another drop lands on my boot. I breath another life-giving breath of parched pine perfume and stare lost across Baikal’s placid expanse. Dogs bark. Severobaikalskis gather in twos and threes on the forested cliff edges to savour the remnants of another precious mid-summer’s day. A faint rain veil has moved down and across the Lake from the northeast. But the air so still tells me that I’ll stay dry.
The full moon has risen now. In the southeast. The reflection like an orange pathway right across shows a gentle shimmer of movement on Baikal’s surface. Occasional smooth patches appear in the light surface. I think of her sinking depths away from those lunar refractions, while the wings flutter overhead.