The winds walk carefully around the black door of mystery, a horizon of skipping stones quarry of collapsed hills unearthed at edges by the ocean, meteors of lava made black by the rising rain on cloudy sand crash and sink in steaming shore, from the heat the sand becomes glass, from the forming obsidian dragons rise with shards of obsidian cooling as armor of thousands of black glass blades and lava pouring out of their nest like fiery eggs or fallen stars, the bare scales cool from metal white and hot to armor like stone and steel. The shore is made of pebbles and cold water, a deep cold washes slowly with a shallow shore with low tide a sandbank against sands dappled with the hail melting from minutes beforehand, the dragon finds a rotten corpse, maggots new and necrosis older wound of blade a butcher's swing where neck meets shoulder, leather jacket stripped of metals and legs given to the withering waves, echoed face of a life depraved, the hellion reptile breathes gentle fire from its own black mirror-like mask until proximal sands become strands of glass in furnace air that burn like drifting dandelion seeds and larger pebbles glow like stone forger stove-bed, and maggots pop to crackling sound while the dragon eats slowly with thankings giving and watching for predators or prey, opportunistic and replete of its birthright instinct, its tail thinking about something tapping into the tide.