I'm Having Dreams About This Not Going Right

In the velodrome, the night-flying dragons reach out with love, touching and passing on those heated dreams of World-War III. They are black and small, passing in front of my eyes like eye-motes, just at the edge of perception, though with dreams in tow they look larger. Now we are in some book of trees, drawings of all the native species, hushing us in the wind, white noise to bring them to their lovers. The air is never so clear now. I can see the edge of the world from here, and all my sisters running over the hill to meet us, a random mass of them, singing of all the things they love in some wild canticle to the earth. All this an empty vision of fiction compared to yesterday's truth.