A dream of bamboo groves and flickering candles. A dream of sitting in meditation, of the alchemy of bees bringing about the reality of honey, of the heart lifting, of a tormented heart and eyes grown world-weary.
A dream of desire stirring below the navel, of a starry sky like a great milk-swelled breast, of crushing loneliness. A dream of crouching down at the edge of water, of the sound of a bullroarer, of the coyote crossing my path and looking back, and he this night twitching as he dreams of the human crossing his path.
Dreams of the language of rivers, the lessons of mountains, the teachings of trees, the lumbering grace of knowledgeable bears, the voices of birds, the pulse of stillness, the rise and fall of tides, of breath, of prana.
And then the inevitable return. For after the dream, I enter myself again.