Snapdragons

One is a serpent on the wing, the other a butterfly. Each belongs to species created from tissue paper, water, and light. When half-awake I can hear the droning of their nocturnal flights, amber engines rattle cut-glass hangers; as they lift off from Wright-Patterson airbase to carpet bomb my dreams. Some are more wolf than dragon, they form packs of loup-garou, and snap at the heavy-handed. Those not employed in directing the prayers of the earthbound, retire to flower in urban cul-de-sacs, chiffon wings and origami faces masking much peppery passions.