Most dragonflies flutter, as large, bulky insects do, with the palpable buzz of an empty threat or make quick dashes that confound those with lazy eyes. They are magicians who vanish in the blink of a lid to reappear in a new cubic inch of airspace or on a perch far out of reach. Dashers, dropwings, parasols and skimmers scour the edges of ponds and slow-flowing streams, defending patches of aquatic turf and dispatching with brutal speed the midges and other midgets who float into hostile territory.
A few tribes of perchers, however, shun the label, having turned their wings into sails that catch the wind and sustain flight with greater ease. Viewed from above, the hindwings of the putative subfamily Trameinae exhibit an unusually broad base and extend much further down the abdomen compared to most other dragonflies, making the insects look a little stubby. One genus, Rhyothemis, displays proportions that convey the illusion of a butterfly; this visual effect is enhanced by wings that sparkle with brilliant violets, blues and bronzes across their length when the sun beams with undiffused strength. The dragonflies appear to heed these signals, too, for the shadow of a passing cloud was enough to chase away nearly all the sapphire flutterers of a weed-lined stream at the fringes of the Maliau Basin, before the males reappeared to bask and battle under the clear, bright blue. A few species, such as the common yellow-barred flutterer, come in simpler garb, but the colours of classical warning are enough to distinguish these bold fliers as they soar over clear trails and hillocks to feed before the heat takes flight from their stiffened veins.
The members of a related tribe, Trameini, have less exagerrated wing-to-body ratios but still boast enough wing loading to allow the dragonflies to glide almost as small pelagic birds do. Traditionally placed in this group though now suggested to be only distantly allied, the wandering glider is a globe trotter at home in nearly every habitat with enough food and standing water to support a new generation. Some populations even haunt the sky around the topmost floors of urban libraries, using the structures as shelter or perhaps spawning in water tanks or puddles that gather in forgotten corners. But Pantala is most often spotted hunting alone above the choked streets of the city or massing in loose swarms over coastal fields in the late afternoon, where the dragonflies hover, float and revel in their mastery of updrafts, as if they were warming up for a lift-off from some monsoon breeze that would bless their restless conquest of the tropics.
Another trameinine, but one less inclined to make transmarine journeys, is the sultan, a robust dragonfly that is the largest of its entire family. Superficially, it resembles the common parasols that lurk in low grasses, with the males of both species having deep red bodies and wings save a quartet of clear tips. But Camacinia gigantea is twice as large and a far more powerful flier, at home in higher altitudes and perching infrequently in a 'hanging' grip similar to that of Pantala. The species is said to favour stagnant pools, so its rarity probably stems from some weakness of immaturity against the nymphs of other odonates, for in adulthood, it is outmatched only by the larger hawkers and clubtails. I have only seen it once, fluttering around the reeds of the shallow pond near the gates of the Botanic Gardens that harbours a bank of aquatic aroids and alien cichlids. Silk draped part of its wings, a souvenir from a risky blunder. But the sultan was otherwise little worse for wear and swung through his domain with sure-footed strokes between spells of stiff flight, leaving little to chance and nothing else to hope for in a day that would soon give way to the ghosts of dusk and a city of ungrounded nighthawks.
Comments