Waiting

Written with my the prompts:  talker, best kept secret, last night I dreamed, reference to the front, the king’s dogs, has less to do with pain, the fence is not a barrier 

Last night I dreamed that the river breached its levee and crept on tiny feet step by step like a kit fox into my yard.  The fence was no barrier to the water’s steady flow:  it seeped through the wooden planks and pooled in the center of my lawn, inviting mallards and egrets to follow.

The king’s dogs arrived, urging me to silence, for the location of the exiled monarch was the country’s best kept secret.  I knew, as one does in dreams, that these dogs weren’t big talkers, but they made their meaning clear.  Wordlessly they conveyed that their loyalty had less to do with pain, and more to do with beauty.  This made perfect sense when I was asleep, but in the morning I felt quite confused.

I drank strong black tea with breakfast.  I ate oatmeal and a mandarin orange.  News on the radio reported the infantry had opened up a new front, miles from here, below the eastern range.  Out of necessity, the general had decreased the number of troops patrolling the spillway at the dam, and local newscasters fretted that this left us unguarded, perhaps vulnerable to sabotage.  

My dream came back to me whole cloth, a vision swirling as I stirred milk into my tea.  I took a sip, nearly burning my tongue, telling myself I was being silly to think the dream was prescient.  Still I was drawn to the window and was startled to see a large robed figure centered on my back lawn, silhouetted in the low eastern sunlight.  I stepped back to shield myself behind a curtain.  I shaded my eyes with my left hand.  Now I could see. 

It was a great blue heron, its wings tucked, its head bowed.  Waiting.

Photo by J Dean on Unsplash