Tonya Moore

Perhaps, A Dream
Think of life as a stream, a "grand and beautiful stream" if you will. It shimmers and curves. It winds boldly, sinuously through the deep, dark earth. It widens into sparkling brilliance, narrows and vanishes into the thick of the night. The intrepid dreamer watches longingly from the deck of a distant ship. It bows down - her winged chariot, sails aflutter and spurns the stars' velvet embrace.
The dreamer alights. Her bare toes caress the powdery sand. She puts one foot forward, then the next. She delves down and dives deep. Time passes under the fretful sky. Eventually, the dreamer surfaces. She could not touch it, that elusive Thing. It's substance continues to evade her.
Disappointed, she steps away still dripping with wet from the river. Drifting slowly, her ship rises gently. Its gossamer wings swallow-up the twilit clouds. While wallowing in her regret, the dreamer hears the distant song of a bird. Its breath is beautiful, sparking an overwhelming surge of both familiarity and longing. She calls out hopefully to the lone voice.
"Old friend? I am but a stranger here in this land and I..."
The evening songbird inhales sharply and stutters. Affronted by the dreamer's rude interruption, it sings no more until dawn.
© Tonya R. Moore