Dragons

We gathered in a field southwest of town,

several hundred hauling coolers

and folding chairs along a gravel road

dry in August, two ruts of soft dust

that soaked into our clothes

and rose in plumes behind us.

By noon we could discern their massive coils

emerging from a bale of cloud,

scales scattering crescent dapples

through walnut fronds,

the light polarized, each leaf tip in focus.

As their bodies blotted out the sun,

the forest faded to silverpoint.

A current of cool air

extended from the bottomlands

an intimation of October,

and the bowl of sky deepened

its celestial archaeology.

Their tails, like banners of a vast army,

swept past Orion and his retinue

to sighs and scattered applause,

the faint wail of a child crying.

In half an hour they had passed on

in search of deep waters.

Before our company dispersed,

dust whirling in the wind,

we planned to meet again in seven years

for the next known migration.

Sunlight flashed on windshields

and caught along the riverbank

a cloudy, keeled scale

about the size of a dinner plate,

cool as blanc de Chine

in the heat of the afternoon.