It is

It is a dragon hiding in its hoard kind of day
A little gray and melancholy
Even trees and flowers blotting the landscape
Like treasures
Don't change the fact that
It is a dragon hiding in its hoard kind of day.
I would be that dragon,
In a shadowed cave, snoozing for millennia,
Days without number,
Interrupted occasionally by the hero.
His strong, dwarven-hammered shield
Becoming one with the pile of treasure.
Then back to the timeless sleep,
Curled around hard golden coins,
Chin resting on rubies and emeralds
The size of eggs.
There is no pleasure to be had in this
On a dragon hiding in its hoard kind of day.