All that preparation for such a short show

Even among the fullness and greenness of early June, even on blades of lush grasses along the river, the tiny damselfly stood out. Dressed in iridescent metallic hues—teal greens and blues—the sleek damselfly landed atop the arc of a blade of long grass.

It was midday, and my way took me along the Hay River in southern Barron County. It was not the right time of day, or light, for photos of deer in fields, or of great blue herons as stalking statuettes.

For all its summery breeziness, there was also a rush in the day as water spilled over the dam from the rain-swollen flowage. After crashing, churning, and swirling, the water settled into a river again on its journey southward. I stood along that route, looking for swallows by their holes in the sandstone bluff that rises more than 100 feet above the river. But the swallows rushed back and forth above the water in small flocks on mosquito missions.

So I looked down. Was that a toad? Yes, all bumpy and crumply, one leap from the river’s side pool. I moved closer. The toad took that leap with surprising quickness and distance, as if it were a frog.

Then I noticed the damselflies, which I mistook for dragonflies. Later research revealed these were river jewelwing damselflies, with the slender characteristics of damselflies as opposed to the chunkier dragonflies.

This insect’s twig-like abdomen extended a couple of inches from its head and squarish thorax, from which six spindly legs sprouted. Its wings, nearly as long as its body, were opaque, except for their black tips. At rest, it held the wings against its body, as damselflies do, except to extend them upright and outward every half minute.

This river jewelwing was finally free, having spent two years as a short larva submerged in Hay River, dodging bass, frogs and water bugs that would have it for lunch. But after two years surviving below water, the showy flier will live only two weeks as a damselfly, catching mosquitos and avoiding birds.

All that preparation for such a short show! The larva molts a dozen times to shed its ekoskeleton before finally emerging as a winged adult—nature’s jewelry in gemlike colors and see-through wings.

Up the line a bit, there was molting in plain sight. A lone Canada goose took short steps, dipping its beak into puddles on the mown spread between campground and flowage. One of its shed flight feathers probably weighed the same as the damselfly.

The goose allowed me to creep so close I could see its leg band, so close I felt I should honk. Why one goose? Where were the dozens of others normally here, honking and carrying on? Where were they grounded? Why didn’t they float to join the loner, or vice versa?

Even the damselfly had partners in dizzying rapid flights all along the river. My jewelwing finally gave up its claim on the bending blade of grass and joined the others in flight, looking for the next blade, stalk or leaf of preying interest.

I witnessed only a few minutes of one day in the short life of a river jewelwing, but it colored my world for that day, along with the path along its way.

Dave Greschner, retired sports/outdoors editor at the Rice Lake Chronotype, writes about nature and the outdoors, pursues nature photography, and is the author of “Soul of the Outdoors.” He can be reached at davegreschner@icloud.com.