“I had the dream again.”

The words hung in the still August air, hardly able to drift to Mabel’s ears. She let the statement take its fluttering course to the earth of quiet acceptance. To signal the death knell of the thought a small flock of wrens took flight from the hornbeam towards the back of the yard.

“I said I had the dream again,” he shoved the words aloft, belligerent that they go forth.

Mabel sighed and set her knitting to rest in the folds of gingham in her lap, “I know. You always do, few times a week for the past thirteen years.”

“I don’t mind. S’a nice dream.”

Clouds lolled into the sky, creeping on silent sails from the distant bay. The sun set down in a blanket of orange over rolling hills from which launched night’s silvery orb.

“I just worry is all. You get that look every time you mention it.”

“S’a nice dream, a dream of flight.”

His eyes traced a lone gull wandering inland, swooping in gentle inverted arcs.

“I know dear. It’s late; I’ll wheel you back in the house.”