My husband, Pete, son, Gabe, and his girlfriend, True and I were meandering on the sandy shore of the Columbia River in Portland, Oregon. A steamy July day, we’d gone swimming and were drying as we strolled, chatting about nothing and everything.

I don’t know which of us saw it first: the jerky, rhythmic motion on a small patch of sand caught our eyes. Little bits of sand were flinging about as something flailed. What? A minnow, a snail? We halted in our tracks. There was drama in the sand, that was indisputable. We peered down. As insects go, it was huge, and we were all captivated as we watched the tiny being buck and rest, writhe and rest, in an ages-old rhythm. And we realized, as if in slow motion, that it was A DRAGONFLY HATCHING.

Quietly, reverently, we all sat down, close enough to see but not close enough to disturb. We whispered. The hatching dragonfly’s dark green head was that of a miniature monster, enormous, bulging round eyes. It pushed in barely perceptible increments. Was he making progress? (For whatever reason, we called it ​“he.”) And yes, he was. It took such intense effort, and he was so good at it, squeezing himself out of his exuvia like a little expert, doing the incredible and weirdly private work of birthing himself — an event at which we were so blessed, so privileged, so humbled to be present. We didn’t know how long the whole process had taken, but we had stumbled upon it at the pinnacle, and as he emerged, his beautiful shiny wings glistened. He rested for a bit, and then flexed his perfect cylindrical torso into the most gorgeous, triumphant arch, a beautiful cobra handstand pose. Clearly, he was showing off. At that, we all gasped and maybe, cried a little, to have witnessed the moment this creature began probably the best phase of his life: the time when he could fly. That was next for him. 

And maybe, just maybe, that was him — many minutes later, zipping over the water in his iridescent glory as we walked back to the car.