The birds heralded that the day was coming to an end. The sun was setting behind the green landscape, painting pinks and purples into the fading sky. Everybody flew where they had to fly.
The quietness befell the lake with only subtle ripples sculpted in places by the playful Zephyrus.
Damselflies began their dance resembling fairies fair. They moved like little ballerinas suspended in the air. Gliding and turning, dancing and observing, they were full of grace. They'd perfected their ballet over 250 million years. They've performed over the face of the water every evening since, before the appearance of the moon, their prince.
That day they were so taken by their own beauty and ephemeral grace, that their compound eyes missed the movement below the darkening mirror of the water surface. They only saw the reflection of their own magic and charm, and believed to be out of reach of harm. It took a fraction of a second or two for the giant toad to devour one of the ballerinas in view.
You would think that others would scatter in a horrified disgrace, yet they paid no attention and hardly moved in space. They soared and fluttered, floated and cruised, to the delight of water lilies amused. Remaining ballerinas continued to play their part, to finish their spectacle, their kind of art.
