or are you just glad to see me?\

It happens to every writer.

An essay hangs in your mind -- almost perfectly formed. Like a dragonfly hovering over a pond. And it then flits away. Just like that.

Or, sometimes, it really is a dragonfly.

That is what happened to me this afternoon. I was lounging by the pool trying to finish off the Turow novel I had just purchased, when I noticed a small dragonfly darting back and forth across the pool. Now and then, it would perform a touch and go on the surface of the water. But, primarily, it just hovered about five feet above the surface.

I have always found dragonflies fascinating. Probably because they remind me of helicopters. With those canopy bug-eyes and their prototype rotors.

They are beautiful. As long as you are not another insect. Then, they are as deadly as any attack helicopter.

My visitor today spent a lot of time hovering in place. Then she would catch an updraft and soar almost to the second level of the house, only to settle again in her geosynchronous position over the pool.
Those of us who were raised in the anthropomorphic Disney tradition would have projected human emotions on her. She was simply enjoy the freedom and joy of flight that all humans wish we had -- and some believe that they do.

But, it would not be true. Dragonflies are not burdened with anything as sentimental as human emotions.

The dragonfly was not visiting me to recite "High Flight." No slipping surly bonds for her.

She was there to do what she was designed to do. A perfect killing machine to feast on other flying insects.

Her attraction to my swimming pool was not coincidental. She knew that if you want to hunt ducks, you go where the ducks are. In this case, because other flying insects are attracted to the water in the pool, she was hanging out in a target-rich environment.

That called for a photograph. And the shooting should have been easier than it was. Even though it seemed as if she were constantly hovering, she wasn't. She would dart in almost every direction to assassinate her lunch.

So, I have no photograph of her. Instead, I will offer someone else's photograph of these beautifully sleek killers.

And, if you have got this far without noting that I have merely substituted sentimental anthropomorphology for a more gruesome sort, I offer up one of my favorite shticks from The Simpsons -- in the spirit that every writer has nightmares that the right line will come only after the publication deadline.