October 23, 2006
The twenty-first dream: I am on the shore of a muddy lake. The bank is made of rocks and mud the same color as the water. Where have I gone now? A road circles the lake and goes up a hill. Cottonwoods, locusts, and dusty maples flank the lake and follow the road up the hill. I am watching the road go over the hill, moving itself like a muscle when a heavy bug hits the water and I am infused with a sudden sense of loss. The shutter comes down, and I am in gritty dark water.