DREAMING
They came for me last night, the Old Ones. How do I know it was them? They left their gifts of feathers: huge charcoal grays streaked and some of them tipped with creamy white. Weighty things that bounced as I tested them in my arms. Their fronds light and airy dancers - more fur than feathers as I stroked them. I gathered these gifts and laid them on a cloth that I could carry them with me wherever I go. Strange they were, one with a hand sized claw attached, another with branches at its tip like fierce antlers, or horns set there to warn me. Of what?
I sat in the back of a pick-up truck all rust and red, with my treasures bundled and hidden, but who could ignore the strangeness of it? Not I.
And in the further landscape of that dream appeared a man that I know, not one that in this other, waking life I'd choose as mate or lover. But there, then he came to me like one possessed, and the fine hair on his chest and beard was gray as the feathery tendrils in my precious bundle.
We made love, danced the spiral, flew together - the power of flight afforded us by the gift the Old Ones had left. Deeper and deeper until we imploded
When I woke in the morning the valley was cloaked in a rosy tinged haze, and though it was beautiful beyond measure, I felt the vog tickling and cloying at my throat. Walking I kicked through old debris of fallen leaves and bark, for all the world like fossilized feathers, left there by the Old Ones to remind me of my dreams
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