When I rise and look up, the blooming has stopped. It is pulling back into itself, like a flower folding inward, and in a moment the metallic thing has formed again, reborn in the sky, a glint; and as I watch, and because I wish it so, the metallic thing reverses its path, shrinking, returning to where it rose beyond the horizon.
I take a breath at last. As I do, the breeze starts up again, the laundry flaps on the line, making a sound, the baby cries, and I begin walking once more on the cobbles down to the sea.
I do not wish to be teased, so I tell no one about my dream.
Because I tell no one, the men who have reason to believe in gifts like mine -- never hear about me. Because they do not, they do not find me. Because they do not find me, they do not help me become the one who is needed -- in this dream and every other.