by Miranda Gent
The gentle breathing of
the sleeping dragon
creates a continuous
flow of slowly rolling peaks
and valleys that swash,
eventually falling flat,
out of breath, to the
shore.
Hopeful bubbles bob
along
as the rims of different
currents meet in careful collision,
churning up small fingers
of foam
that create vein-like
patterns in the ever-moving mass of verdant.
Delicate ruffles of
ivory, flitting horses,
race lazily across the
dull resolution
of the disturbed
reflective surface,
winking flecks of ochre
and gold
stained by the sun into
the air.
Gentle ripples wondering
aimlessly
across the awakening
looking glass,
gather an unseen power
as a low rumble of
danger begins
and something far out of
reach begins to stir.
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