Winged warder of the night hurry blind into the light where tiny sounds betray elusive flying food. Dive. Strike. Roll the axis. Vere again. Never touching or colliding, rise jurist of the dark. Let the moth beware her ancient nemesis come to judge and sentence. Depose small, unseen marauders in their flight. Close debate with moral bite. When the hawk first cries dawn, speed into a dark, cool cave where safety dwells in numbers, where bonds can be proclaimed and verdicts of the hunt exchanged. Sleep then as day prepares another night. Hang by fingered claws and dream of soaring, swooping, striking, diving. Dive.
A dragonfly darts above the water bowl,
black and purple, quick and whole.
I shade my eyes to see
her wings but notice first my hand,
calloused, wrinkled, veins defined and
then a sky so blue it hunts infinity.
Now I can’t recall the thought and so must leave
the words unwritten,
shake the memories unbidden,
rest the passions ridden;
best to weave
them all into
a silence deep and foreign as that blue
into which my dragon flew.