Absentmindedly brushing my hair near the window, an imperceptible flutter near the dusty sill.
A tiny dragonfly.
Tangled in silvery strands of spider web.
Released from its exquisite deathbed I held it in my palm like a fragile piece of blown glass.
It looked at me with what I imagine must be throes of agony, multiplied manifold in its compound eyes.
Or perhaps the quiet slipping away of a wisp of a dragonfly soul.
What was the point, I ask, of all that minuscule beauty? Those airy wondrous wings? That myriad melee of colour and splendor and perfection?
An ignominious, ordinary death in the palm of an IT employee.
What a shame.