Across the ocean of mud, it gallops with grace.
Over the silent moors, a majestic leap.
Through forests of mist, it sniffs the proud earth.
A flash of orange, a shroud of fur, weaving
though the unfamiliar grass as if it were a dance.
Grey encircles my damp shoes;
morning dew fades under bleak sunshine.
A glimpse of the orange flash,
that which is shrouded in fur.
The dance comes to a halt, pale eyes gleam.
Gallant shadow, child of trees, a messenger.
Flesh and blood carved in amber.
It gazes for a moment, before dashing into vapour.
Its presence dies, and all becomes still once more.
Mist hangs above the garden like a noose.
I watch, wonder. Stupefied.
The monkjack dances in the dark.