That rustling of the leaves
May not be a wind that sings;
But the graceful flowing movement
Of two very massive wings.

The mists down in the valleys
Could be low lying clouds;
Or the many puffs of smoke
From a head built strong and proud.

Rain may quickly follow
When the air is full of rumblings;
Or it may be the sounds of footsteps
That sets the rocks to tumbling.

Maybe that twinkling little star
Is really a shining, glistening eye;
Because you never really know
When a dragon is passing by.