In the morning I wake
to the red 
hot sunrise to find myself 
daydreaming.
Let me drink of cool water
and simultaneous 
chattering birdsong.
 
This is not my dream.
The bird is dreaming me.
There is no bird or me,
there is only water and thirst.
The vision’s sudden awareness 
ends in a fluorescent
blinding that wakes itself.
 
The dreamer is 
fashioned of smooth stone.
A blue jade water ladle,
the handle, by hand, 
carved into a bird.
The ladle itself is a dream
of the small dipper that hangs
over the celestial basin,
 
a bright bird on its handle.
The constellation itself does not exist.
It is the dream of the bird star.
Who is now still, as always
unmoving. Alert and watching,
dreaming and thirsty,
and awake.