the hopefulness of fantasy

taking flight and rising over the trees

the dragon spiraled higher than a hawk,                                                              became a hawk, became a dot in the sky. 

a man, his hat pushed back on his scalp, stood watching the bird/dragon circling. through binoculars. 

feathers came loose and floated to earth. 

a rabbit, a hare, a coney, a mouse, ran from the spot.                                fearing the raptor’s talons.

the dragon drifted downward on the wind, the man his target. 

the man, feeling his vulnerability, jumped into his automobile, drove swiftly down the mountain. 

bird watching is one thing, but a dragon tracking you is another.                  the  man drove to his office. his eyes still on the figure of the dragon.

in the city. in the tower, behind glass windows, watching the turning, twisting dragon in the sky, as he fell through space, his wings outstretched. 

rumours from a local village. a huge bird, a dragon, had stolen a youngster from his doorstep. 

the anxious, distraught parents, asking for someone, anyone, who had seen their boy. who knew what happened to him, please. the mother wringing her hands, the father standing helplessly by. the archetype of grieving. 

the local heddlu had given up the search.                                              dismissing the rumours of a fantastical beast--                                                    the hopefulness of fantasy, of extraordinary reasons,                                      that we are meant for something greater, but we’ re not. 

eventually fading into oblivion.  all that is left is memory, an etching on stone, a ring of stones in the grass, that are not sacred. just. cold. stone.