A great feathered dragon sleeps, hidden amongst the sprawling urban landscape. Not well hidden mind you, but hidden well enough for most eyes, dull and glazed over, clouded as the mind behind them.
For some of us though, we see the clues: a single, gigantic whisker, sprouting up tall through a sewer grate, twitching to the rhythms of distant echoing snores deep below the earth. A clawed toe, thrust out from beneath a dumpster, its prismatic scales and polished talon glittering in the dim light.
Periodically it reveals itself in all its invisible majesty – cars crash, mothers give sudden birth, winds blow, pets whimper and hide, the world fills with terrible and wonderful things. And then the power ebbs, shrinking and withdrawing into out-of-the-way places: under beds, into attics and cellars, sewers, empty warehouses, condemned buildings, untrod and wild corners of parks and backyards, repelled by the predatory, analytical scrutiny of the human gaze and the painful grinding noise of human thoughts. It waits for the moments, when chaotic beauty rampages unchecked, often coinciding with defiant and unstoppable sunrises that hammer creation with the celebration of heat and light, shrinking the night into a patchwork of shadows, a scattered army of jigsaw puzzle pieces, hiding discreetly from daylight, behind and beneath whatever cover it can find, waiting silently for the night power to grow and piece itself together again.