Utopian eggs

In streaks dawn is painted.  
I as an observer will place a stethoscope towards all skies . Sometimes  bursting into budding roses. In these times passing when hearing will become listening. This eternal global rhythm will become known. My fountain pen is clad in deep dark rivers where firstly I was a bird. Long before my aching bones nestled into winged words,  
 
In oceanic knowing I delved into viral pools. That night I  had awoken to strange intrinsic images being woven into a pattern. A lucid dream told me a cross lined pattern where dim light shone. A cloak collected me beholding not a person nor a silhouette. No outlines of a face shape or body could be found. Just a robe like cloak which came towards me. It slid softly around my shoulders before I even could decide to wear or enter it. I dared not ask. As I entered this cloak hands played a seemingly harp like instrument though it was not amplified. These gestating hands turned into flickering orbs then as I entered the shamans mirror I received a clearer vision.  
 
I saw how an old nomadic woman wrote symbols in dry sand. A yak grazed nearby. Then suddenly the sand shook as it slowly turned into a clean pure white surface. Snowy crusts adorned this landscape. Some human figures with long loose hair wearing a known depth in their gaze and posture. An instant feeling of belonging filled my whole being as I saw a circle rising with ancestors. Some distinctly human others animal anima masked winged bold fierce even grotesque figures. Gargoyles silently stilling slithering flakes. Strange unified universes There were outer and inner circles. Sounds clattering chattering appeared then disappeared. A figure pierced with an arrow approached me telling me fragments. A tale with no trail.The figure fell into pieces.  
 
Before the final piece of this figure had fallen I heard its voice anguished , shouting  
 “I was told to retell this story, please help us before all of the rest of this vision will be slaughtered butchered and burned ”, This made me shudder though eventually I felt myself replying with a fleeting promise.  “ Help us to remain  before we too will dissolve into the drenching dark marshes of A I”  
 
When I woke up and was shaking off this matter I went for my morning walk. All urban sounds were not plastered yet before the long awakening. It was a Sunday. As I passed the river suddenly I heard a plunging sound from the waters. As I stopped I witnessed silver sprouting forms, ah what luck to see salmon jump up. I watch this spectacle knowing tiny miracles exist.  
 
I thought about all the sayings about salmon, how they spring upwards in opposite directions, how they are symbols of wisdom, how the nose of the salmon is considered the finest best part. So I will save the best as the last.  
 
Follow your own stream even if this means binding backwards. Or flowing an opposite direction. Proceed as I will proceed this tale.  
 
signed  
 
your imagination  
 
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