The dragon beds down in his cave
folds his enormous gilded wings
like a weighted blanket enveloping him
and settles onto his nest,
lined with a tapestry showing a unicorn
snatched from some castle he threatened.
Of course, there is no such creature, the dragon thinks,
as he snuggles into it before drifting off.
The dragon dreams of distant skies to fly in,
broad and blue, wide as all oceans
as he glides on the billow of a West wind.
Then dreams of new skies to explore on other worlds—
red-streaked horizons, jagged by giant lightning storms
or sunsets glowing bright green with ozone.
The dragon sees himself soaring,
roaring past alien moons, dying suns,
past spaceships travelling at light speed
whose crew shudders when he passes.
From the hearts of exploding stars,
he steals the raw elements for diamonds and gold
to make jewels for his treasure hoard.
The dragon imagines himself with a beard
and horns like his Chinese cousin.
He dreams of humans he has captured or fought
and the few he has loved.
Perhaps he dreams of me?
Or perhaps I am this dragon, dreaming I am human?
