I have to stop and run back to take a second look
at what I think I’ve seen through the trees –
the horns of some monster, a bouldered head
and shoulders of beaten silver. And there he is
grasping a spear and a blade, Defender of
the post and rail fence, fields and house beyond,
Guardian of the small metal pig at his feet.
There’s no one else here to enter the myth of him
with me, no one to wonder at the heave of his chest
as it rises and falls under a glint of moonlight,
his huge head lifting to the stars, his fearlessness,
his sweet protection of the little pig. I imagine him
striding across the fields towards my home, taking up
position on the soft earth between the bare apricot trees.
The monsters aren’t always who we think they are.
We learn to save ourselves with our own stories.