(c) Nin Harris 2009–
You don’t always hear of trees that dream they were once dragons. Still, they may be more frequent in number than dragons that dream they were once trees. Our attention may now focus on a peculiar tree within this dreaming forest of peculiar trees. All trees dream; within a dreaming forest it is hard to tell if a tree is dreaming the dreamer, or if the dreamer is dreaming his or her self into a tree. Our gradon dances between states. She fluctuates; a woman with henna flowers on her bare feet and gold thread lacing her saree. Then, a violet dragon with delicate wings threaded through with lapis lazuli and fine amber light. She has golden eyes that turn to the deep green of the dreaming woods. She has glistening scales that turn into powder-soft mocha skin before resolving into the textured bark of a raintree. Her dreams may carry the draconic roar of a battle-hymn or the voluptuous strains of the South, her thighs shifting and her spine undulating as the ripple of a sitar’s strings accentuate the irregular rhythm of her heart.
Within the dreaming, all things may resolve within a single space.
The gradon isn’t quite sure if she is still a woman, or a dragon, or a tree. She fidgets within this space where she is three things.
Somewhere, just within the perimeters of the forest, a dragon shaped like a man begins to struggle within the captivity of the dreaming. It begins to resolve itself into thorny briars.
Perhaps it was always about this tale. Perhaps, even now, trees are beginning to dream that they are thorny rose bushes. Perhaps the roaring of the dragons in the sky above may also transfigure. From battle-hymn to the stately pavane of a draconic mating call. It has always been thus. Enclosures must always be penetrated. Dreamers must always be awakened.