Misty Ridge Musings

Pure white with fierce black eyes.
Purity and ferocity.
Like a dragon made of ice, cold rather than hot.

This fairy tern; what is he seeking?
Staring straight at me; what does he want?
Eyes meet, something transpires, but what?

I tell myself, this is a bird, there is nothing there.
But look at those eyes.
What do those eyes see that I don’t?
What stories has he witnessed?
What is he telling me?

Ah, this is it. Inside, Dragon is fairy tern.
The fires burn so hot; all is transmuted to white—the sum of all color—and black—the absence of color.
Fairy Tern is the ice formed in Dragon’s core, flies free with all Dragon’s ferocity and purity. Escaping unseen in the fires of Dragon’s breath. Most see a pure white bird—an angel.
But not those whom she stops and looks in the eye, saying,
“I am Dragon.”