A Morning Tap

I sat up on the dry wooden thwart, brushing dried pond reed fluff off my felt knees. Right on the weathered gunwale, a fat yellow dragonfly landed like it owned the craft, twitching its clear wings right in my face. I had half a mind to swing the banjo around and bat it clear into the cattails, but I held back my temper. Instead, I carefully tapped the white rim of my banjo head with one green fingertip—tap, tap! The dragonfly hopped up an inch, startled by the tiny drumbeat, then settled right back down on the wood grain. I grinned, leaning back against the hull, and softly strummed a bright morning chord to keep it company.