I pass this goat farm every week. In a small unincorporated community called Golansville. I keep hoping to introduce myself to the owner and ask for permission to take goat portraits. I haven’t had any luck so far. For now, I content myself with an occasional photograph taken from across the road. The goats don’t turn away. They look at me with mild curiosity and then go on about their business.
It was much the same with the dragonfly warming itself in the last of the evening’s sun. On a nearly dried towel on the line. I kept walking closer, expecting the dragonfly to fly away, but it remained still. Nearly as still as me—holding my breath, trying not to shake as I pressed the shutter on the film camera. A single frame left, no room for error.
