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
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.