He landed tired and worn, his head bore the scar of some unknown battle that only he knew. His wings tattered and opaque had seen better days in his youth when he plied through the barren swamp catching his food with swiftness of a hawk. I approached him cautiously and he did not move, not even a nod or a twitch; motionless, as if he no longer cared whether he lived or died. Maybe the experiences of his short-lived life told him I bore him harm; I will never know what things he has seen through those great prismed eyes. He was one of the biggest Dragons I had ever seen and he let me run my camera up and down his body sometimes touching his immense back with never a flinch. His ancient eyes were weary and they could tell stories of his days in the swamp darting in and out of the cypress trees. Once, he even landed on an alligator’s snout; with mutual respect of the hunters that they were. The coolness in the air marked the end of the season and the cold would soon be settling in. His life would soon be over and only his progeny would live to tell his story once again, the story of a Dragon’s tale. Time to die.
Posted on: Tue, 23 Sep 2014 02:36:44 +0000
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