Last night I watched a plank become a chair

I'm standing in my old workshop, but I'm not holding any tools. A rough oak plank is just sitting on the bench, and the light keeps moving across it, and each time the light passes, the wood shaves a little more off itself. It doesn't need me at all. It's shaping itself into a chair, unhurried, the way a river decides its own bends. I wake up before it's finished, and somehow that feels right.