The Ghosts of Dragons

Coveys of shifting clouds

rearrange the evening sky

like orange dragons they descend

upon the receptive soil

reigning as fire lords

mythical autocrats contriving

to reconfigure the orbit of the globe

a minor tweak and the sun’s angle

will tilt anew in the tropics’ favor

From the porch of my hut

I spy their comings and goings

much ado about nothing or even less

their prancing and slithering

their full-bellied belching flames flying

all this distracts from oncoming storms

to the fidgety onlooker's delight

their biggest threat of extinction only themselves

their biggest predator and foe only themselves

I do not share their playfulness

falling from the sky across my path

fog sticking to my glasses as rain

pummels the hut now is the monsoon season

I dread its onslaught I mourn its aftermath

too many drowning waves

too many damning winds

an apocalyptic ballet on the edge of the void

no one dances freely each step a tiny death

We die infinite tiny deaths they accumulate

like rosebuds in a vase they shuttle us away

to some barren ill-lit room

the picture window opens onto a field

blue turns gold turns red turns purple

turns white bursting with blooms in spring

hanging on till fall distracting from the evening sky

which settles above my head in it I can see

the ghosts of dragons laughing flaming in the dark