The dragonflies swoop.
Fighter pilots strapped into tiny biplanes
painted bronze or powder blue,
I strain to hear their invisible engines
whir as they skim the picnic table —
one after the other,
dipping down, rising up
high into the haze again.
The neighbor’s little girl, pink camo
backpack jammed between her feet,
can lure them to her outstretched hand:
their darning-needle bodies sink
to her finger in the powdery light,
trembling for her silent orders.
Young girls, with still-soft bones,
listening to the humming sun.
M.J. Turner’s poems have appeared in Nixes Mate, Spillway, concis, and the I-70 Review. She lives in Massachusetts.