the enormous owl, in my true dream, turns his enigmatic white face toward me as he swoops past, and then, as if reconsidering my worth, circles behind me and settles delicately but solidly on my head. he is surprisingly substantial for a feathered
creature, but i shrug him solemnly about my shoulders, a soft and whimsical wrap,
like the ones back then, in my aunt-elsa-the-actress’s costume coffer, under
the velvets and the veils .
his talons are firm, but gentle; his huge wings, occasionally crossing my breast, are fearsome, but wondrous in their tenderness.
we travel an unfamiliar pathway, my mystifying burden and i, and he is such
effortless cargo that i wonder if perhaps he is bearing my weight instead of me his.
and i can tell, from the unconcern of those we pass, that i alone am aware of his
presence.
when morning comes, i feel blessed, and bereft to be awake.
*
“death”, say the sources that profess an understanding of dreams.
“imminent disaster”, they caution.
owls are, apparantly, portents of doom.
*
"oh, dear", i frown, and then sigh.
i can't do much else: he was beautiful, that owl on my head, and he seemed to know where i was going.