Saggitarius

Starved monks crane quietly Among the thistle; awaiting the rain again. Grapes sing with color on vines wet and glumped with waterlets; ensnaring them. I wait by the well, resting against stone, staring Tenuously at the backs of Their shabby, sun-scorched Armaments made to manifest clear and immediate liberation. Rags and smiles. White wispy hair. Cheeks pricked by thorns. Illicit in motion, the shortest saunters over to me like an Un-manned unicorn, and asks Sagaciously, “Are you the Legend of the Archer?”