I'm in my living room. I hear a low-flying airplane circling my home. I look for it through the windows, which offer a panoramic view. Finally, by crouching, I can see the airplane -- a large, slow-moving, 4-engine, propeller-driven plane.
I sense that it is spying on me, so I try to hide behind furniture. But I still sense that it can see me, even though I've pressed myself into the space between the couch and the coffee table. It's as if there is no ceiling / roof on the house. So I slide myself under the coffee table. Finally the sound of the plane diminishes, and then I emerge.
I go outside into my home's courtyard. White stone walls surround my home, like a Mexican "abuela"1. Before closing the front door, I check that I have my key.
In some areas of this courtyard, there are sheltered corner-nooks that are formed because part of the outer wall connects to the wall of the house, forming a low roof. It strikes me as a more desirable place to be if that plane were to return. So I decide to settle in / under one for a while with a book.
1 The word "abuela" is offered to me by the dream, even though it translates from Spanish to "grandmother."
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