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I walk where the dragons sleep,
layered flesh as hard as rock,
the soft down of moss
sprung upon their backs.

They coil about me
in towering contours that rise
and fall like kingdoms,
a living labyrinth against
cruel winds.

Jewled rain spreads
watery fingers
across quiet flesh
and gently sings their throngs
to wake.

I slide over one giant's spine
my flimsy metal caravan,
the only offer of safety,
but I am captured now
by awe,
more than fear.

The brood stirs the darkness,
the dusty thickness of held breaths
releases into the offstanding
coolness of air.

A cashmere mold grows,
white and grey algae floating
upon the loose surface
of shadow and night,
slides through the hills,
tufted vines.

In places it is luminous,
lit perhaps
by hidden city lights below.

A lone car blinks,
lighting up like a small,
lost firefly,
in the dandelion fog.

Calls to me
down by the queen's feet,
but I have turned my lights off
waiting to catch short moments
of brilliant fire.

I am rewarded
by flourescent white,
muted sandstone red,
dirty headlight yellow,
dried lavender,
and pink blush.

It comes in sharp streaks,
in writhing worms of light,
and in dispersed bursts behind clouds,
as though the white balls were puffball mushrooms
breathing bright spores
to seed the black ground sky.

Illuminates for brief moments
like a strobe,
the dragon islands
projecting in the sea of fog and fire,
and the clouds that spring
in the sky look like something
in a pop up book,
themslves 2-d, but projected,
the color of a photo negative.

When I try to drive away,
I notice a tail flash through the air
before me,
I tell myself it is just a dark cloud,
but discover
it is the rocky ridge of back
risen above the milky spill
of smoke.

Everything has taken an errie glow.
Silvery metallic blue roads,
unnatrual firey coral red on street signs
and dotting the spine of highway.

I pass beside a skinned carcass,
shining, detailed flesh now reduced
to a dull, cobbled mass of dead meat,
and falling bone,
slayed for the treasures the dragons keep,
the black eggs of fire
that man does not have the wisdom to raise.

The real treasure is gone now.
I wonder if the other dragons notice
the silent figure beside them
as they weave their tapestry
with glistening threads of light,
and the soft, down of smoke.

The lake beside the road is lost in the loose fabric now,
and the mountain behind it,
just an island in an endless sea.

I search for the moon,
but she has cowered in fear,
so tonight I owe the dragons
for the light.