[31] The End Is Sung, P.C. Scheponik


Walking the dog this morning,
I came upon a dragon fly
lying on the concrete walk,
on its back, legs, in slow motion,
treading air.

Though it seemed like it wanted
to turn over and fly,
the earthbound aviator remained
there on the ground.
It was a young dragon,
whose cellophane wings were
so clear they seemed to disappear
against the rough face of pavement.
The insect was dying.
The precise deliberation of its passing
pressed into my mind.
I know in the great scheme of life,
the death of a single dragonfly
doesn’t seem like much.
But watching this creature
release itself—
or watching it being released
from this world,
touched something very deep
in me,

as if fate had led me to this place,
as if Earth whispered in a voice
made of grace delicate as a
dragonfly’s wing:
Look and see.
This is how it is done.
This is how you sing the end.

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