As they fly, only briefly resting on leaves or fragile vegetal stalks, the dragonflies’ restlessness is almost carried over to the observer. Different from the serenity of butterflies and bees, and different to the caution felt next to other beings with chitin bodies and foamy wings.
photo: Anca Dărămuș
Though a familiar presence, every time my camera lens reveals the intimacy of their design, the magic works anew, as if I’d just discovered these beings.
photo: Anca Dărămuș
Seen only in short reposes, the architecture of their bodies is a masterful proof of immateriality. Pure energy, the dragonfly – outlines from the wand of the Great Conductor, one of many moments of inspiration.
photo: Nicolae Dărămuș
photo: Anca Dărămuș
photo: Anca Dărămuș
Perhaps that is why entomologists resisted the temptation of a dull, what-you-see-is-what-you-get classification, otherwise a normal practice for reputable men of science. On the contrary, the two main species, the dragonflies and the damselflies were christened based on what is felt, on that restless magnetism I mentioned. The damsels, whose wings align with their thread-like bodies as they rest, seem to lighten everything they touch, enlivening the discretion of those truly daring. The “dragons”, whose wings lay horizontally upon their somewhat more real bodies, seem to involuntarily stab the air, masters of their fleeting resting ground.
photo: Anca Dărămuș
Yes, there are researchers who believe.
They “do not crush the world’s corolla of wonders and do not kill, with their mind, the mysteries they meet in flowers, eyes and lips…”
With their snapping selfies, genuine or fake holiday ease, chatter-filled cigarettes and sodas, the other passengers had driven me to the stern of the ferry. The roar of the sea under the muffled thrashing of engines elicited in me an admiring ‘technical thrill’, perpetuated by the skillful assembly of these massive, yet graceful metallic structures. A mournful shriek drew my gaze.
photo: Nicolae Dărămuș
I’d heard it before. Others followed and, as if the sky had given birth, hundreds of seagull wings blazed the patch of sky above the eddies.
photo: Nicolae Dărămuș
The dogged noise of machinery faded suddenly, and their flight settled like a caress on the foamy wound. Finally, as the sky reclaimed his children, one by one, I felt the toil of the propellers under my feet again, and the lively voices on the deck grew stronger. Life had just paid us a visit.
It had been a frosty night, and at dawn I was waiting for the fox. In other days, it was at this smoky hour that I’d seen her from afar, making her way towards the forest. Now, finally, I was in her path, crouching amid leafless shrubs. Bearing the promise of warmth, the light grew lazily over the still valley, in whose depths I could decipher a meandering creek. The whispers of the ripples passed unevenly through the rare ice holes strewn softly into the weight of the snow. Sign of an inclement night, strings of tiny footprints vanished into the woods, crisscrossing the stream. The skyline, blood-red for too long, was turning to yellow. At least the Sun will reward my patience; to feel the gentle caress of sunrise on your face is pure bliss. Almost makes you close your eyes. But the shrubs quivered under a flutter of wings. I turned and discovered my companion: a bullfinch. A rosy ball of down, swollen in the cold.
photo: Nicolae Dărămuș
I caught myself smiling as the first ray touched the breast of this morose little fellow. The thicket around us now alight, I’d forgotten about the frost. The sharing of joy is no buzzword – the light was there for us all.
Several weeks had passed since I’d seen the deer step out of the sedges. In the middle of the glade, she’d chosen a soft, round, spot, where water oozed under a determined footstep. I’d spent over an hour near the brush-like thicket, but I didn’t see her go in. The fortress of grass must have seemed a wise choice for the day’s shelter, I told myself. No foe could have penetrated it without the rustling grass betraying event the sneakiest gait. As for the daring fox or stray dog that ventured to chase her, failure surely awaited, after a cumbersome run through a green wall over which the deer would simply leap. There I was again, in the same known glade, not far from the sedge island, when two red, indistinct lumps appeared at its edge. My binoculars brought them into sharp focus: they were two fawns.
photo: Nicolae Dărărmuș
The deer I’d seen must have given birth there, and I’d probably spotted her during nursing hours.
I rushed towards them under the cover of the forest, but my rush soon turned into a slow, crouching, step by step advance. As I reached the tall grass I stood up stealthily, camera pressed against my eye, doing my best to act the tall ‘stump’ who just happened to appear there. But the ‘kids’ didn’t mind me: one was grazing, the other one cavorting all over the place. Every now and then the hungry one would play along, briefly, then resume his luncheon. Too caught up in their play, they won’t notice my walking, I thought. And, snail-like, I edged forward. It’s working! It’s really working!
The gap between us had narrowed quite a bit when the playful one spotted me. I froze in my tracks as he eyed me intently, seemingly forgetting all about his frolic. Yet something about my ‘stumpness’ assuaged him. No – he definitely hadn’t forgotten about his fun and games… As I resumed my advance, my movements – though just as measured and silent as before – did not escape the gaze of the ‘watcher’. Though he seemed absorbed in his joyful jumps, it became clear that the novelty item in his surroundings had made an impression. He was playing, but playing attentively. Though – like all children – not also cautiously. Spurred on by the curiosity of youth, he started to come closer. From time to time he would stop, puzzled, wiggling his ears – a mark of anxiety – yet he couldn’t resist. He just had to find out what the deal was. You should have seen him…
photo: Nicolae Dărărmuș
photo: Nicolae Dărărmuș
As the wind was blowing towards me, my scent did not betray me. When only a few steps were left between us, he’d found his answer, a short tail turned towards me, and he was gone. Peace was there.
The places where the forest has been kind to me have come to carry a certain mystique. Ample, inviting glades, the crossings of tenebrous paths, minute clearings where, at just the right time of day, enigmatic flights of shadow and color spring forth from the cobweb-like branches, brakes of fallen trees with rebellious roots like gaunt, imploring hands. A wealth of memories gathered in these places makes me return expecting more. And even though man plans, and God laughs, the thrills of the scenery turn my hope into certitude as I wait for ‘the beasts’. ‘There’s no chance they won’t show up. Not here…’ Left to its own devices, imagination is working. Deer could well pass through those beech trees; pretty soon, there’s bound to be some wild boar rooting in those oak shoots. If only the wind doesn’t betray my scent! My eyes gaze intently all around and, under the assault of my own fictions, time flies. As the edges of things give way to dusk, deceptive contours quicken my pulse. Yet, as the cold sinks in, so does the realization that this time, it wasn’t meant to be. But next time, for sure!
I’d let myself get tangled up in old memories, that afternoon. The shadow of the forest was rising quickly over the glade as they appeared, frolicking. Two roebucks, barely a year old.
photo: Nicolae Dărărmuș
photo: Nicolae Dărărmuș
Their soft and velvety horns, like long fingers of a glove, were no match for their joy at having discovered competition. In fits and starts, they would run and ‘brake’ suddenly. They would circle each other tensely, as if weighing up their endowments, ‘weapons’ crossed menacingly, ready to strike…
photo: Nicolae Dărărmuș
photo: Nicolae Dărărmuș
But the attack never came. Tirelessly, they would start over again. A lengthy warrior dance of soft touches. They way brothers do.
As I lay down above them, at arm’s length, I wanted to stroke them. My hand even reached for the water.
photo: Cristian Grecu
A thoughtless gesture, which would have perturbed the idyll. I stood up. The fluid alcove where the lovers seemed to ignore all dangers was proof, yet again, of the innocence of life.
photo: Cristian Grecu
Of a candour which turns the ravenous gesture into murder. Come October, the fishing forks of the insatiable will take away the trout and the romance from these unspoiled waters.
In the grassy shelter of the riverbank, as she was laying her spawn, he awaited his turn.
photo: Nicolae Dărămuș
I later saw him withdraw. At peace, it seemed. His mission had been fulfilled. But it had been no mean feat. The crown of his head bore the marks of needle-sharp teeth, scars from a conquering past.
photo: Nicolae Dărămuș
A dorsal fin touched air, and in that brief moment the ripples revealed the water. I discovered it with amazement.
photo: Nicolae Dărămuș
It all seemed to be happening in a patch of the sky.
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