Their banners lean.

Glint of moonlight
Colors spears a pale white
Bobbing to
This quiet tune.

Flags are stained red,
An approaching dread
Creeps on through,
Below view.

The gauntlet down.

Arrowheads of ice.

Painted herbs and spice
Black below their eyes,
Peering nerves unwracked,
Through stone wall cracks.

The scent of tense is left
Only on quiet breath

Before they move.

Baker’s Hot Sauce

Baker’s Hot Sauce

On main street stands a mercantile
Shop seen ran with exotic styles

He ignores the roller and flour
No dough to factor his power

No this baker made things spicy
Even if peppers were more pricey

It was worth every penny he spent
It was worth being short on rent

He knows something they don’t know
There’s a spice that makes food glow

Imported from the curious Indies
And harvested by indentured pixies

That brings a bite to any meal
Could be a soup or cut of veal

No matter the kind of chef’s pastry
It would become much more tasty

So he smiled pulling from the oven
A batch to the count of two dozen

Knowing that nothing can parallel
His treats perfected and incredible