As I walked a wooded path at the lake, the space before me flickered with five Meadowhawks, all female, floating down from leaves above me, stirring the air with promise of morning. All five alit on bare stems of two shrubs, staying put for long admiration.
But only one wore the mantle of age, firing the darkness of woods. The female grows more beautiful as she ages, reddening, as if painted with pure carmine along the topmost of her abdomen, making everything else disappear into background.
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