Just before dawn and we're in kayaks on the glassy surface of a lake, heading into a lily-choked channel that leads to a dam. Loons are not crying, but geese, heading south, honk above our heads. Soon god-rays of the rising sun arrow through the pines, and you ask, "This forest primeval. . . .is it my dream or is it yours?" I stop paddling. "So where have you been all my life?" You smile. "Waiting. . . ." you tell me.


Dream Fragments (Swan Scythe Press) 2020.
Also special thanks to Ginosko where this first appeared.