Dream Bird

Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved.

Apparently on those rare occasions when I do 1) sleep, and 2) manage to hit REM, the new thing is wild-creature dreams. 

I mean, it's one thing to dream about our animals here; god knows we have enough of 'em. Current count: four horses (down from a high of six); three dogs (down from a high of six); thirteen chickens (down from a high of seventeen, thanks to Coyote, the little fucker); and assorted wild birds and other creatures, including the occasional yearling elk. But to dream about wholly new wild ones, especially with actual, tangible interaction, is a new one on me.

A week or so ago, it was a wild cat (as in large wild beast, not feral domestic cat). Last Saturday night (or, more accurately, Sunday morning), it was a wild bird. As with the cat, seemingly a hybrid of actual creatures, but a combination that does not, so far as I know, exist in the real world.

This is what 12 Monkeys gets me.

For some reason, Wings and I were in Philadelphia. [Yeah, 12 Monkeys, I know, I know . . . .] Like the movie and series, it was apparently the Philly of some frightening future, although our immediate surroundings were nominally pleasant enough, I suppose.

Now, I haven't been to Philly in . . . what? I think the last time was maybe a dozen years ago? I've think I've been there on five separate occasions (not counting driving through the outskirts to miss the Jersey Pike). We have absolutely no reason to go to Philadelphia, and certainly none to meet a group of people to go digging for something in a very old, very ornate sort of state library. Multi-level; top-level mezzanine kind of thing with a sort of cubbyholed area above where the staff would sit, had there been any staff. The lights were on, but no one was home. We clearly were not supposed to be there, and we were looking for something while hoping to avoid being caught. Like I said, 12 Monkeys.

Anyway, big place. Did I mention ornate? All white with gilded trim, utterly baroque, a very Louis Quinze ambience. Well lit, but dead silent but for us. "Us" consisted of myself, Wings, my L'il Bro from Philly, and some three or four other people who I couldn't name in real life if my life depended on it, but who we all knew, at least casually, in my dream. People from an online community that we share with L'il Bro. And while we're hunting furiously through stacks of books at one of the tables, there's a sudden flurry from the cubbyhole above the staff desks on the mezzanine.

We look up to see a bird. A BIG fucking bird. In a nest, with several young bobbing up and down around her, clamoring to be fed. She's the size of a very large raptor, the largest of the female hawks, or more likely, an eagle — but her large head is rounded, like a pigeon's. She and her offspring are gold and white, a match to the library's decor.

We discuss, in hushed tones, the fact that we need to hurry; the racket might draw unwanted attention from officials (whoever they are), and we're not supposed to be in here. Suddenly, a little white woven mesh square comes flying through the air to land on the floor at Wings's feet.

Startled, we all look up to see Mother Bird scolding everyone in the room in a rapid-fire version of her particular avian tongue, us and the younger feathered generation alike. L'il Bro asks aloud, of no one in particular, what she wants. I reach down and pick up the bag, because that's what it is: white fabric, with a white mesh covering, a little like a laundry bag, square and pillowed, and not much bigger than the palm of my hand. [In my dream I can't identify it, but upon waking, I realize it was an empty suet bag, oddly shaped.]

Don't ask me how, but I know the message she's trying to send. "She's hungry," I say. "Her kids are hungry. She wants food."

"We have food," Wings says. And we do, although not much, and we know that it's mostly old already and we have to make it last. Nevertheless, everyone nods agreement that we should feed them. He passes me the bag of food across the table; I root around in it and come up with some old pieces of frybread, dry and stale and shaped a little like turnovers. I hold one up; Wings nods at me, and everyone else agrees. I turn to my left, looking up to the nest on the mezz, and heave as hard as I can.

It's a perfect shot; the frybread lands squarely in the nest, and the little ones begin bobbing ever more furiously with glee. Mother Bird settles them down a bit, raises her white-and-golden head, looks down directly at me . . . 

And says, with perfect diction in perfectly clear English that everyone with us understands: "Thank you."

She turns to feed her offspring, the library is suddenly gone, and I awaken next to Wings in the yellow-gray silence of early dawn.

Yeah, 12 Monkeys. I know. But what does it mean?





All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.