My fingers, twisted together, supported
my neck, arched into the wet, warm grass
tickling my head and scalp with visions.
Laying out beneath the blue summer sky,
air swollen with late evening thunder-
storms, the lively green branches of the
tree scraped across my view and I was
taken to an older place: a land of hunts
and huntresses, knights and daring, of
courage and magic. In the sun brightened
leaves I watched a woman, nymph-like,
a reincarnation or perhaps embodiment of
fair Artemis, crouching between forest
floor and Olympus, taking sight along
a single feathered arrow, into the blue
unknown. Clad in dun and dirt and silence,
the shaft alighted from her bow in a gust of
wind. As it pierced the clear sky, a thunder
pierced the peace, the dark arrow became
a dark plane, streaking across. The deadly
promise transmuted itself, wings of metal
became langorous, leather beats keeping
the sinuous wyvern aloft, smoke streaming
from its nostrils, carving forgotten symbols
into the forgetful sky. It shrieked its
displeasure, cutting straight to my fear,
and challenged the explosively bright
sun flanked by a wreath of clouds. It
took form, and waved its fiery sword
high above its celestial head, wings
of triumph and faith holding aloft the
seraphim. Girded for battle against
superstition and doubt, the Archangel
Michael wielded his flame-licked blade
in arcs and flourishes that seared my
eyes. I closed them both and breathed
in fantasy.
