High on a mountain on the side of the road there lurks a strange menagerie:
horses and skeletons and rusted knights of old,
wind veins of forgotten things fly as pennants in the breeze,
and point to dire warnings for dogs of all kinds.
Here Don Quixote rides again, his bones a-rattling against the sides of his steely steed
while far above a fair damsel waits in some distress from her castle window high
while the firebird or eagle (take your pick) surveys all with a glassy eye
and the Don's gun is at the ready even if he may be a little slow on the draw.
while in the brush another creature, dangerous and dark, waits for the unwary trespasser.