Dawn’s breeze prowled and stalked the tall grass.
The sun just beginning it’s daily stroll across the sky.
Across the field, trees still dark, the nights dreams were finding their way to the nests, lairs, holes in the ground, or the trees, or the clouds they called home.
He sat quietly, watching them scurry or skip, or walk boldly, on their way home. He wondered what dreams told their children as they tucked them in.
He wondered if dreams looked in the mirror and saw their fathers sometimes. He knew their father had looked in the mirror and seen them, sometimes. He wondered if dreams, like people, knew that if you decided, and were diligent and dedicated with it, what was their world, and what was our world could merge, and that was the future. He wondered if they taught their children that. He wondered if their children listened. He knew their children would learn that on their own anyway. Did they, like him, simply try to make it easier for them?
And the circles and the thoughts and the plans for lifetimes turned and folded like individual kaleidoscopes, differing only in details. While the scope, the hopes, remained like days passing, each one a little forward from the last.