SCISSORS AND FOX-FLIGHT
Dreamed 1996/8/20 by Chris Wayan
I'm living for a season in the wilderness, at the foot of a hill in the green rainy East. Eastern WHAT, though? America? Australia? I can't tell.
I camp in a ring of gums--Australia, then, I guess--and settle down for the night, despite the risk of falling limbs. Want to be hidden.
Deep in the night, I wake, uneasy. Heard a predator in my sleep? Don't know what may be out there.
But I have my big black scissors! I open and close them, snick snick snick, and picture the night hunters hearing the metallic hiss from afar, warning them that here's a well-defended creature!
I snip and trim some of the yellowing dry leaves from the drooping branches, till I have a clear view east up the mountain, the way I expect predators to come. I thought when I camped here I wanted to be hidden, sheltered, but now I know: in my life, a clear view's better than shelter. Open beats closed!
The moon rises. A strange wind's sighing. I get up and nightwalk with my dog. I always say, if you're afraid of prowlers, become one.
As I prowl and crackle through the night, I start to feel the power of the moon. Have I changed somehow? Not sure just what I am any more, in the dark.
Suddenly I grab the black wind, lift off... and fly. Not far, the short hops and glides of a flying fox, not quite full flight. But wonderful, weaving through branches. In the lunar half-light, a skittering half-flight.
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