Pixie Dragons

I thought the landscape burst in sudden flame with embers wild cavorting in the glare of dawning sun, but boundless sparks became a throng of monarchs flitting through the air above a field as though on charcoal ash that gusts of wind then carry as they gyre. From wings illumined spread the brilliant flash of pixie dragons breathing threads of fire as fine as frog hair glinting in the slow emission of the morning's creeping light that struck the gloom with every lambent blow until each wizard shadow was in flight. The tartan tiger eye that draped the glade was blazoned on the pinions as they flew like flower petals of the clans arrayed in Lilliputian combat on the dew. A cadence of disheveled leaves they fell, these butterflies upon the turrets mean, escarpments and fay parapets to quell the mist ascendant from the April green, then rose again like prodigies from smoke that came to cloak them from the murky foe, kaleidoscopes of flutterings that broke the cling of darkness with emerging glow. By noon the burnished battle scene had cleared as dandelions waved their vanquished whites, the gleaming copper standards disappeared and I relinquished images of sprites.