Quiet summer nights. Slipping cool curtains over the grass.
Feeling heated and urgent after a day of to-do's, I fall to the feet of the weeds, sinking gloves into brambles; they gnash their thorns. The pain only spurs me, and I drag out bramble after clutching bramble, feeling the rip as their long bodies resist, scratching through undergrowth and holding on tooth and briar. Finally the last dragon is pulled from its weedy lair, and I sit back Conqueror, quieted at the sight of a peaceful garden. Lovely fire lights the crowns of the trees, but only for a minute, slipping away as gold clouds cover the sun. Shadows slip like curtains, birds draw theirs and whistle their last contentment, leaving
a quiet summer night.
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