I find myself in the alley back of the house, 914 West Sullivan Street, Kingsport, Tennessee. I am west of the back corner of the yard where my beloved sandbox once was.

I am in transport, being transported, in some kind of vehicle, unclear what kind, with at least two wheels joined by an axle. The two wheels are appropriately placed on either side of the grassy divider strip between the two graveled ruts. The median is green with grass.

As I am rolling along, I look down and notice, strikingly, two substantive tendrils protruding out of the grass. They are like sea-anemone tendrils. The largest is about an inch, maybe more, in diameter at the base, and it is not quite a foot long. The tendrils are animated, sea anemone-like, and they are growing. I know I do not want to crush them or disturb them. Not so much because they might hurt me—although they might, as an anemone stings—but because they are to be respected and regarded in their own being.

On the return trip, going in the opposite direction, I again approach the tendrils in my at-least-two-wheeled vehicle, and they have grown more substantive. Their green skin is now scaled, like reptilian scales. The larger tendril has bifurcated and is twofold now. Each of the now three tendril outgrowths has a dragon’s head—very precisely formed, as precise and almost as narrow as sea-horse heads, but these are powerfully emergent, not vulnerable. It is clear that these three sets of eyes are, as might be said, all-seeing. Their gaze is not for me to define or analyze.

Again, I am not really afraid, but I am in deep awe. I do not have an urge to flee, and I do not have an urge to stand still—I never stop rolling, or I am rolling even without motion. This apparition is as it is. There is nothing for me to do, other than to record this dream as I am now doing.