Days of brass and sunlight, and the chrysanthemum face
                with eyes of gold.

He would sit there in the light,
without moving, sometimes for
years... Then, when he spoke, it
was of small details, trivial visions.
One could often think on one such chord for an age,
        live an ordinary life of bees and stairs and
        children, and realize one pale autumn morning
                what meaning was hidden in that
                handful of words...

                        We would talk there, in the sunlight,
                        of small things, every phrase he spoke
                        being a little truth.
                If you took each of these, and fit
                them together, and angled them
                to the light, so, they would form
                a large truth...
                                or merely a collection of small ones.

He lived in Peru, long ago.
Many of them did -- the old ones settled to rest.
They liked the foothills of
the mountains, where the
air was mellowed, and the feet of the giants
were full of caves which held the collected
sunlight of centuries, released in the warm,
dust-filled summer nights. His scales caught
        and reflected the golden light, turning black metal
        to brass, and brass to gold...

                        Days of warmth and stillness, and the
                        rumble which filled the corners and
                        teased into every crack which is the
                        laughter of a dragon... I remember.

        Dust and truth, with the motes which hung in the sunlight
        like gold floating in oil, amber flecks in the deeper brown
        and black, the click of claws on stone. Twin pools of
                molten brass, unblinking, holding wisdom
                behind polished rims. Holding souls, and
                the depth of time, and the dust and sunlight
                of an age long forgotten.

Dragons are rare these days,
with their slow habits and
quick thoughts, their eyes full of fire and time.
        Still a few drowse in Peru, in mountain
        caves full of sunlight. Still a few send
        laughter wandering the cracks and corners
        of the stones, making the mountains
        rumble. Still a few dream of dust and warmth and stillness,
                of days of brass and sunlight, and of the small
                truths which are so much more important than
                the large ones.

                A memory of a memory, perhaps, but the
                dragons know. Silence, and light, and gold.
                Truth.