Dragons in Iowa

My egg hatched amongst the dewey corn,

in the throes of a Midwestern spring,

where slush and mud dominated the terrain.

I peeked out from my shell and gazed at the

sprawling skies, empty save for a single cloud.

Suspicion told me that is where I came from.

Perhaps the moon shed silver tears, weeping my

brothers and sisters and me onto the Iowa soil.

We are the dragons of the gold and green prairie.

Shortly after my birth, I roamed from the field

into a quaint farm town, one boasting a cineplex

with four screens, the best soy sprouts west of the

Mississippi, and a tiny ivy and brick college with

specialities in agricultural science and Christian

theology--not that any of that concerned me.

I only wanted a quiet place to hide and such a town

seemed like the perfect pocket of America to

live a humble life, under no national scrutiny.

We monsters, after all, prize every sliver of privacy.

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com