Woodsmoke on butterfly wings.

At night, in The House of Golden Dreams, while cats curl in sleep and storms rage outside, if you listen with your heart and ears you can hear

wolf breath

paw pad

dragon stir and shake

hares dance

bears claws on wooden floors

sometimes the beating of angel's wings, but rarely

a cello playing

the hush wing brush of a barn owl flight.

In the air there is a scent, of angels? Honey? Lilies? Fresh baked bread? Wild heather and honeysuckle mixed? Woodsmoke.

Yes, woodsmoke on butterfly wings. For somewhere in the night time gallery a woman dances to the music of dreams, slowly, in a dress that is a gathering of butterfly or moth wings. She is not alone. Careful paws wrap round her close but gentle, so as not to damage the dusty wings that clothe her.

Woodsmoke on butterfly wings.