Dreaming a Story

 I've got a few quiet moments to myself Friday morning.  

A few years ago, I used to regularly have about fifteen minutes in the parking lot at work for reflection and writing (school drop-off schedule didn't quite mesh with the work schedule).  With various life changes and the COVID pandemic, I don't always have that bubble of time to think about stories, or the latest dream, or various wildlife sightings.  

I must have tried to dream about my current fantasy short story because I dreamed I was a Merlin-esque character in a story Mary Stewart might write.  I had been pulled out of retirement or my hermitage, and was being accompanied by a young man to my old home in a forest of holy and oak.  As we were riding, he was about to tell me something important, when I motioned that he should stop.  A falcon or similar raptor flew out of the forest and alighted on the top of some trees; this indicated that there was someone nearby eavesdropping on us.  "They must have known that you'd come to fetch me," I said, "and have been watching me for some time.

There wasn't too much more; I found a spot next to some ancient trees where my stone house used to be... I have a vague sense that I lived in a stone treehouse.

On the wildlife front:  I'be been seeing the hummingbirds less, probably because they're up right before the sun rises and I am not.  However, we have had an increase in dragonflies, both the small ruby kind and the large sapphire kind.