Deep night. Moonless black.
We're camped in a grassy fold
of California hills--
not that you can tell.
Time to wake the Hero!
He planned our predawn raid:
we'll surprise the enemy tribe
on the hill just to the north.
Thrice I whisper his dangerous name.
Careful! Don't touch holy Him.
For he's a trained assassin,
slash-prone, and I love my limbs!
By my foot he spies a dim
red linear ember, a mystery strip.
An unsheathed sword, a folded fan?
He sees a portent--and a plan.
Well, he's our expert! So
we watch him cut-tear-fold a gull-
sized paper bird, and then
go forth to face our foe.
Oops! No starlit surprise for us.
They woke and massed behind
their spear-thin, spear-tall
famously cunning Hero.
He leads and they timidly trail,
tall-thin spears in dawn-dim hands
down the four-lane road up to
the College of San Mateo.
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Our Hero knows just how to strike
panic in their hearts. He lights
the bird, and nods to his tall
Lieutenant, who sets it aflight,
flaming toward the enemy. But
the poor bird flutters round and down
to fall ash-dead at our feet.
Well, it horrified me.
Our Hero so far disappoints.
On the other hand, their Hero soon
gets cut off from his cowardly troops!
We chase him through a house with rooms
whose doorways form a squarish ring.
Round and round the heroes go!
He tries to hide, but we're all in loud
Renaissance garb and the sun's up now
so lurking doesn't work so well.
We catch him at last, although
our Hero ain't much help--
so big and muscled and slow.
What do we do with him now?
Theirs, I mean, not ours...
Then I wake shivering in the dark
4:15 predawn. A chilly fall,
and no heroes here
no heroes here
no heroes
at all.
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