Arwen awakens and smiles as she hears melodic voices skip and play like a trickling brook through the garden. Some voices dance along, sparkling and laughing on the surface, catching the sunlight with their voices. Some voices meander in the cool depths, swirling slowly, gracefully in deep thought. All bring refreshment and reflection to the Earth, songs of joy, songs of wisdom, songs of pain, songs of merriment. All in beauty, all in peace. <BR><BR>In the night of my dreams I heard the fluttering of wings. I watched a moth lay her eggs upon moonlit leaves. She danced through silvery shadows, a dance of life, a dance of death. Soon she would fade among the fallen leaves. <BR>One by one her thread-like children emerged to feast upon succulent plants. Soon fattened on sun-drenched leaves, they dropped one by one to the ground to dig their hidden chambers. Deep within the palm of the earth, cupped in silent catacombs, each caterpillar wove a womb of silk. Like tear drops of the earth they lay, glistening crysalises in the dark, each dreaming of rising into the moon's embrace on fragile wings of colorful dust. <BR>Now unfolding in mysterious transformation within their protective shells, now liquid, now solid, the self is a confusion of change. The soft owl-eyed creatures churn in confinement as they begin to press open their tombs with slender legs. Their tiny wrinkled wings emerge wet and pliant as the furry moths dig their way to the surface. Soon the wings grow and straighten under the cover of night as the moths pump fluid into them. Then they will rise to weave their shimmery night song into the fabric of darkness.<BR><BR>One chrysallis lies still within the earth. Its dreams have been invaded by spores, fungi that feed upon dreams of flight. The night stems of hunger descend to invade the fragile walls of the cocoon, to halt the growth of the moth, to steal its wings. Soon the fleshy stem will emerge from the moist soil, a smooth phallus of death rising into the dead leaves, its cap engorged with the dreams of flight.<BR><BR>Early the next morning a child walks through the forest, her dark eyes anxiously searching the ground. She crouches down to inspect the soil, carefully brushing away dead leaves in the cool shadows. She surprises a sleeping moth and as it flutters drowsily away beneath the trees, the girl smiles. She knows it is near. Soon her keen eyes spot the slender white fungus and her fingers tenderly pluck it from the earth. Moments later she arrives breathless at her father's home. Rushing in she deposits the small mushroom into her mother's hands. The delicate fungus would be added to the others that she has collected and together these would be made into a medicine for her father. Soon his illness will abate as wings of healing unfold within his heart. For this fungus of death carries a dream, a gentle dream of moonlit flights. And this caterpillar was chosen for a different kind of dance.