descent

Coming down, down, out of the high country individual grains of yellow pollen strike the windshield and roll off to one side or another or else blow upward, over the roof of the car. Row upon row of aspens, firs, then miles of farmland. Heat in the valley.

Now in the thicker, coastal air it is dark and cool. Outside, wind moves the trees. Inside, rows of books line rapidly-filling shelves. Tea steams in the cup. A cloth hangs in the window of the door, on the cloth the red dragon of Wales, tongue curling past its teeth, standing guard. But Sleep knows the password, and the dragon will let him by.