A Pilgrim's Dream

In stoic silence a windy Imhotep sculpted with his breezy breath a leafy monument of catalpa architecture. Spirals of wishful orange light dripped dimly from the street lamp's maw, spotlighting the catalpa dancers who used my mask as a stage for their feral shadow dance. As Imhotep inhaled, the dancers paused. But my fingers stirred the stillness, tracing the subtle wrinkles that composed my face. He exhaled as I found grayness in each wrinkle and pore. The dancers whirled. Then, under the catalpa tree, I woke from my dream. It was dawn, or maybe dusk; I couldn't tell. Both Sun and Moon were in the sky.