Mar 04

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The Dragons

With each deft movement

They glide effortlessly through time

Old as the trees they wander past

Each scale glimmering, glittering

Unblinking eyes ever watchful

Photographer: Roger Sanderson

Black and white and gold and orange

Sometimes a mixture of all

With hints of unearthly splendor

Behind each iridescent scale

Each sleepy movement of a tail

Whisks them forward lazily

Until at once, from some unseen disturbance

They fly from sight with great speed


Each pattern in sunlight glows

And in clouds they shine alone

Fluid, graceful, flexible, effortless

Unhurried yet purposeful

Each gossamer fin in quiet repose

Until a flick of the wrist drives them

To some new direction


A gaping maw breaks the surface

The greatest one has come to visit me

An old friend and trusting gaze

With patient eyes, watches

I stroke the slippery nose carefully,

My fingers slip and my nail pokes the sensitive snout

I apologize, but the trust is damaged

And my visitor glides away


I wait, as patient as I can be,

But they are old, and trust heals slowly

At last, returning, cautiously this time

My fingers are still and extended

The soft heart bumps them with a velvet nose

And nibbles my fingertips with toothless affection


Peaceful here in the place between

Lush Springtime and the lingering Winter

I sit in quiet awe of them

Beneath a soft grey sky

And in the bitter winds

I envy them their peaceful home


It is no wonder the Eastern World

Believed in Dragons, for here they are

In a myriad of colors, patterns, sizes

Serene and wise

Impetuous and bold, the younger ones,

But always graceful and liquid in motion

I, bent and crooked, accident-prone,

Watch them with approving respect

Wanting to be like them

The Dragons of the Water


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