Fearfully and wonderfully made ...

... or evolved, it you like. In the end methodology makes little difference.

I wandered through a gap in the fence in the southwest corner of the Chariton Cemetery late yesterday morning, then moved onward into undeveloped greenbelt wrapped around the western slope of the big hill --- long placid ponds where fish were jumping, the river just out of sight over an embankment to the south and west, wooded slopes rising to the north and east.

Grasses were in some cases waist high after a lavishly watered spring and the path unclear --- contrast to manicured ranks of granite now out of sight behind me.

The cemetery had been a lively place. Walkers, joggers, at least two groups of family pilgrims armed with cameras and notepads among ancestral tombstones ---and the tent-vault-and-folding-chair fixings for a committal service halfway up one slope.

I parked beside the vault truck, driver snoozing with windows down in the shade, waiting.

Then the dragonflies rose around me --- dozens with every step. Darting, alighting, taking flight again, swooping out over the water, coming back to land.

This golden guy posed willingly. I'm thinking he (or she) had just emerged and was waiting for wings to dry fully before taking flight.

Others were not so cooperative --- although this Blue Dasher seemed to be in no hurry, black-veined wings barely visible against an intense green background.

Life and death juxtaposed, although --- for a few seconds there, I was reincarnated with translucent wings.