When I dream, I dream of coffee on the back porch of the farm house that overlooks the green grass, kissed by the morning dew that had rolled in from the lake the night before . You can see the drops that decorate the blades if you listen closely enough, carried individually by moonlit fairies and dripped carefully, being sure to not disrupt the water drop’s story. The sun rises slowly not wanting to wake the earth too early or abruptly, whispering in its ear that it’s time to think about moving. The dogwood trees listen for the sunshine, as it dances quietly on the rorschach inked bark - turning the forest into a therapist’s wonderland. As the whisper turns into a yawn the deeply rooted creatures start to ruffle their leaves, moving slowly until their branches stretch out like a well-rested pup moving into downward-dog, paws to the ground and butt to the sky, shaking itself awake and running towards morning.