by Carrie Classon I was “up north,” walking through the woods with an escort of dragonflies on either side, as if I were a visiting dignitary in need of protection. I love dragonflies. I love their variety and their shiny wings and the way they turn on a dime in midair. I love how they clear the path of mosquitos as I walk through the woods along the lakeshore. I love how they behave exactly as a good escort should. My husband, Peter, and I spent the early days of summer at my parents’ cabin, where everything magical I imagine about the north woods when I am in the city showed up in reality — as if by magic. I saw the first wild geraniums of the season. I saw a doe with three speckled fawns.
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