I am convinced that dragons live here. In the night I imagine I can hear them breathe and move around the grounds; fly above my bed by the window, high in the air, circling. Breeze through the room is their downdraft as they lift off. Lightening is the flash of their power; thunder is the roar of their mystery. For this is a strange and new land, peopled with mysterious creatures made from unknown wisdom.
Round and spinning lightning fast with teeth of pure steel make sport of cedar, devouring a thin strip and spewing a plume of dust in perfect dragon-breath style into the late afternoon gold-light. Sharp and deadly is its high pitched little roar.
Small dragons are still dragons.
There is both precision and wildness in this dragon who consumes a fine, perfect line of wood, cleanly severing into two what was once a member of a whole forest family. Ruthless. Fearless. Powerful. Beautiful.
This is only the little woodshop dragon. A wonder of wonders must be the one in the blacksmith’s fire!
Here, there be dragons.