an old writer and his words

They were hoveringlike so many demented helicopterson the verge of the pondthis morning, as if fightingthe humidity that hangslike a velvet curtainover summer mornings.They look littlelike the dragonfliesof my childhood imaginationnor of the great beastswho should oncehave roamed here.We are nowtheir predatorsbut the morning sunno longer danceson the wingswe have given up.