A Dragon in My Garden

I sit in a chair, on a red cedar deck, in the Chill of

November.  The last coyote yelps carry from river’s edge to

home. An owl in feathered overalls, sits high a tip-top

telephone poll, next to my neighbor’s fence. His watch

reads pitch-black & a quarter till full-moon. Its 3:00 A.M.,

he’s about to punch out, his shift nearly complete. Then he

politely excuses himself and back to work. He’s never been

much for chit-chat. He lifts off like a soft melody from a

dark music sheet then through his hyaline portal.  I’m

thinking I’ll see him once again, in a week, maybe two, or

whenever he chooses. I’m ok with that.

 

I can see my raised garden, boxed dirt with redwood walls,

carrots, radish, basil; a succotash of sorts, zucchini & acorn

squash, with climbing vines of bean.  I see towering corn,

tomato too, and then a dash of fur & scurry & stamping too.

Then leaping about & leaps of faith; a variable mouse

rodeo, except for the riding bull. On the leading edge of

ghostly winds fly dragons, full with scales of armor, talons

& snapping turtle beak, as do birds of prey, with scythes for

fingers, feathery scales & darkness as a shroud. I view oh

Wing-O-Death, oh dreidel head, oh silent reaper plunge.

Then just one swoop & scoop, one squeal, lights out. The

moon: White ball in the corner pocket, a new dawn is on its

way.

*

Biography

Dan has a MS Degree. Dan lives in Northern California and  is the author of three Chapbooks, Nature’s Front Door , Expectation of Stars and Ghosts in the Cupboard. Partial Credits: Amethyst, UK., Ardent, Better Than Starbucks, California Quarterly, Chaleur Magazine, Entropy, Esthetic Apostle, Foxglove, Frogmore Journal, UK, High Shelf Press, Oddball, Poetry Northwest, The Quail Bell, Skylight 47, Ireland, Spelk, Unstamatic, and Vita Brevis.