By midsummer, her nights
are livid. She hears,
now as then, the water
speak in its trough of sleep.
But now, too, she hears
what cannot be other
than the thick pulse
of the wings of dragons.
For what else could set
fires in the foundations
of the sky, could have borne
him away and held him?
Paraic O’Donnell 
Never knew you were into writing poetry….
Don
Very nice. I can hear the wing