These sociable insects rub their wings against about a dozen black-tipped pairs of spines down the legs to produce a gentle susurration. Each manages about 15 seconds of the intense effort required for every stanza of their love song, but they're so numerous that one blends with its neighbour and it seems as if the whole of the marsh is whispering quietly.
It's the perfect mood music for azure damselflies, fizzing along the edges of the pool to mate. Couples not yet in the love act whizz about in tandem, the male's abdomen tip firmly clasped to the back of the female's head. Mating pairs, however, perch on the grass stems. The male copulatory organs are on the underside at the base of his abdomen, so, with near-Tantric flexibility, the female must extend her abdomen up under her own thorax to locate the spot. In doing so the two insects create a slightly lopsided heart-shaped formation.
The next stage involves the still-linked pair flying to the water's surface. Her abdomen loops down and then fishes for a grass stem to place eggs in its hollow core. He, fixed to her thorax, stands bolt upright like a blue stick, with head pointing skywards. He remains attached to guard his partner from interloping males, but he offers her one last service. If she's threatened from below by, say, a fish he flies away, carrying her from danger like a personal rescue helicopter.