Ox × The Starweaver
However far the dream is drawn, it won't believe it until the field is plowed, one furrow at a time.
The Starweaver pulls a dream down out of the sky and you, an Ox, look at it and reach for a hoe. New Moon, no light yet, Vega up there spinning thread. Most people with this far-seeing streak float the dream and let it stay a dream. So you are the one who walks it out to the field and starts the first furrow before anyone else believes there is a crop in it.
You hold the long view the way a Starweaver does, the whole arc of a thing years out, and then you do the part they skip. You plant it. One hoe-stroke, then the next, the same row at dusk that you started at dawn. People call you slow. What they are watching is a daydream getting turned into ground you can actually sow, which almost no one manages.
The fault sits in your spine. Once the dream is fixed, you do not switch it, not when the wind turns, not when the field has clearly gone dry. You plow on into the dark out of habit, head down, certain the furrow is right because it was right last year. Vega is a star at the loom, free to spin one thread forever. You have a back that aches and a season that ends. Some night, lift your head, read the wind, and let one row go.
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A mirror, not a prophecy. It reflects you as you are right now. How you walk is still yours to choose.