("With nary a whisper nor a sigh, rosy-fingered dawn creeps into the
land,
stealing the soul of the night." This was written as I watched the sun
rise over Muurn River and considered how many dawns had been watched and
greeted over the last few centuries.)


The sentry yawns.
Eyes straining to see through the darkness
Beyond the torchlight.
Polished steel armour growing heavy -
Watch almost over.
Four hours on the wall,
A few minues to bolt a quick meal,
Four hours at the Gates.
The city lies quiet at this hour.
Nothing moves but the watchman,
An old drunk, and the dogs
A serpent slips through unnoticed;
Headed for a darkened shop where venoms are sold
The sentry stretches, easing tensions;
Joints creak and pop in the cold damp of the night
Grip on weapon relaxes briefly -
Knuckles whiten as fist tightens on hilt.
Sleepy chirp of falcon huddled nearby.
Another check on the landscape;
Nothing moves but the breeze across the grass
And suddenly there it comes!
Creeping in from the east it slips silently toward the walls -
Unheralded, unheard
Flooding the Gates, drowning the torchlight;
Filling every corner of the city.
Unstopped by the lone sentry,
Unhampered by the city guard.
Lights go on in windows,
The babble of sound begins on the streets;
People rushing through doorways,
Filling the roads.
The sentry stifles a yawn,
Salutes his relief,
And heads to his cot
As the city welcomes the dawn.

Penned by my hand on the 4th of Phaestian, in the year 459 AF.