Outside in a rural landscape with a small lake, trees. I'm part of a group, it feels like we are on a field trip, exploring.
Then two helicopters appear, of the transport type, with one rotor in front, the other in the back.
They open their hatches and out comes something white, which is hovering, or gliding, like sheets of paper, flyers. As things fall further, they turn out to be huge origami paper birds, like swans, to say the least. They are somewhere between active and passive. I see one flying with it's neck straight, nearly like an aircraft.
One member of our group tries to make one from a large sheet of cardboard, but it is more like a thought.
They paper birds are hovering some time, and I'm now standing on the bank of the lake with part of the group. One of the birds faces me, I can clearly see it is all card board, nevertheless I feel there is at least some life in it in the way it looks at me, even without eyes. I telepathically lure it closer, and it comes closer, I'm excited.
It seems all of these creatures can't fight the force of gravity, they all sink slowly, and drown in the lake, as does "my" bird, it doesn't seem to have a thrive to survive, but keeps facing me, while its back sinks, and it is gradually drowning, until only its hollow beak remains, it seems to be breathing. I'm sorry for it, I don't feel I can do anything to rescue it, it seems to be part of the plan, of the experiment.
Before the origami bird entirely vanishes, the scene shifts.
Now we are in a classroom. The teacher asks us how many students will remember this remarkable event after twenty years. While nobody answers he says: 90 percents will forget. I comment: I rather won't, as I'm used to extraordinary experiences through caring for dreams. I record the event to the best I can. At first drawing one bird, but I'm not satisfied, I don' get the proportions right. Then I'm writing a report, and it is unusually small and scraggy, I wonder if anybody, even me, will be able to read afterwards.