Dragons In The Morning

A meadow of jade grass, damp and bright with dew.
Ponds gleaming like sapphires of heaven's own hue.

A sunrise, a glory of blood red and eastern gold.
A faint breeze, bearing a greeting touch of winter's cold.

An autumn tree nodding above the ponds, wrapped in mist.
A track of grass as green as the first snake that hissed.

Fading heat, lingering in the world only a brief time.
Bark worn smooth where the feet of squirrels climb.

A clack and a brush of grass bowing to the east.
A sound of scavengers hurrying to some fallen feast.

A rush of wings and of glory sweeping west.
The rising of some great beast from morning's nest.

A golden flash- one, and then two!
Wings lowering, beating, shaking back the dew.

The tree bending before the wind of some greater power.
The chill turned back to summer for the space of one hour.

Fire flickering downward in an expression of joy.
Two dancers upward with all the speed wings can employ.

Wings folded, falling, tumbling and weaving.
Wings snapping open, swallow's joy from hawk's grieving.

Taloned feet folded to gleaming scaled breast.
Tail lashing as one flies into the west.

Pivoting, turning, radiant and royal, splendid and free.
Sky and ground moving, then righting themselves regally.

Flight after the first teasing golden-born.
Leaving the autumn meadow to doze in the morn.

Brief dashing shadow of wings across the sun burning.
Return of light to a world sick with nameless yearning.