Shelley wrote odes about the Skylark; I'd write elegies for this. My favourite insect, found dead and fairly well mangled on the pavement outside my house. A most unglamorous end for a most glamorous damsel. Mysterious too: I live in the midst of the agri-desert, more knee-high barley growing from cracked earth, than delicate, slow moving streams. The closest to that is ten miles away, where from a bridge over a reed-lined stream you can see them skim and flutter over glass-like water. I've seen them confused for butterflies and likened to angels. They look ethereal; this one found the pavement to be all too real.
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