On this mid-May Saturday, the local dryads are surrounded by the giddy gladness of gazillions of leaves.
The bark of some birch trees forms into scrolls.
It was used by the local Natives for all sorts of purposes, especially baskets. But I sometimes imagine them as scrolls filled with the most marvelous wordless poetry.
This morning, I had a dream -- it contained an image as if it were a white page, or blank sky, or a screen--
in the center, appeared a light or flash or form, and from it, in concentric geometric shapes--beginning with triangles--scrolling words emerged, I didn't notice in which language, but perhaps English, it didn't matter. Most remarkably, the word-shapes shifted and revolved kaleidoscopically, yet symmetrically, constantly changing. As if taking part in a cosmic dance, filled with joy.
And then I awoke.