––––––––
I awake to the sound of rain on my pod. Lying utterly still in the swollen womb of the willow tree, I listen as the drops plink off the hard bark. It feels as though I have slept a long time, and while I am sure I must have dreamed in that time, I cannot recall what I dreamt about.
I push open the pod and crawl out into the rain. Resealing it behind me, I scurry down the wet bark of the willow tree and hop to the ground.
Looking around, I find the park has not changed during my slumber. The ducks and swans still sleep on their little island near the center of the pond. The pale woman"s house still stands on the corner—warm, amber light spilling from its windows. The small animal in her yard—who"s hind legs seem so much like my own—remains quiet. That will change when I begin my
