Like Sparks From an Unseen Fire

By Peter Bowden


In the still heat of late summer, dragonflies danced over the garden pond like sparks from an unseen fire. Their wings caught the sunlight in flashes—silver, gold, glass. A boy sat cross-legged on the worn wooden dock, watching them with the quiet reverence usually saved for church. He didn’t know their names, only that they came back each year when the lilies bloomed and the air grew thick with heat and memory.

His grandfather once told him they were old souls, riding the wind between worlds. “They’ve seen things,” he’d said, “things older than any of us.” And the boy had believed him, because dragonflies moved like they remembered—darting, pausing, vanishing—carrying the stories of the reeds, the clouds, and the hush that lives just after thunder. In their wings was history, in their silence, prayer.

Evening fell, and the dragonflies drifted higher, seeking the last warm breaths of the sun. The boy didn’t speak. He just sat, watching the sky tint itself in bruised purples and rose, thinking maybe he’d come back tomorrow. Just in case one of them had something to say.


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