Seasons of Dreamings

The seasons are changing. Now, leaving my window open all-night-all-day requires an extra blanket at night, as temperatures drop below 50 at night, and mornings leave a crystalline dew that collects in lazy droplets against the screen. I even start each morning in sweats or warm-ups rather than shorts, and slipper usage on hardwood floors soon becomes a necessity.
Rain approaches, and the cinereal sky darkens the mornings, burning away in afternoons into an archipelago of popcorn-island clouds. The first leaves metamorphose. It is a season of stories approaching, myths, and my muse is blind, or deaf, or distant, or dreaming.

Last night, my dreams consisted of an apocalypse, and twin whirlwinds, spinning around like a destructive helix, approached the town. Only a tiny string of townhouses, rudely erected on the edge of the forest in which I played the piano in a log cabin, stood between me and devastation. I knew my older brother and the female goddess each slept soundly in those buildings, though I could not play loud enough over the deafening tornado winds to awaken them. I had not time to find them, for I knew not in which house they slept, but if I could only play a little louder, the apocalypse might end, and they might awaken to soothe the winds into sleeping.

That's two days in a row of oddly melancholy dreams, though only the first day I awakened in grief. This last one came with a strange expectation of hope, a belief of conclusive victory, however violent the storms and imminent their devastation.