Sparrow Dreams

Morning snows in my dreaming book of secrets. Like a Disney movie, sparrows are singing in my head. An hour after coffee I grasp reality as if it were inflatable and survivable. A plane crashed in the night, I know I went down, but the night forgot the plot in the turmoil of another dawn chorus call. Now there is deep snow, and winter forecasts are already piling into drifts where a few sparrows bounce weightless in the sparkling air. Today will be special, I will go to special school, one created for semi-illiterate writers of sparrow music. I will choose bright yellow sun-shaped faces. Helpers will open my book of dreaming secrets, then slowly in a language made for simpler times, explain what I said when my mind was fed by fantastical stage music. Then after crumpets and tea, the rest of me will toddle into the night dragging a life-belt behind. The sparrows will fall silent, a dimmet landscape will be full of previously downed and drowned, I will enter it with eyes closed in order not to see what happens next, and if we all again die a little, will it matter?