Dreams of Emily Dickinson through the lens of Carl Dreyer. Backlit with no sense of the light's source nor what space was behind her. Or was the dream of the first line, "Dreams of . . . " Woke happily, still dark, not tired at all.
Yet outside it smelled of rain, the air thick as wet flannel, a thing to be pushed through. Feet slapped the pavement walking east. Quickly lost both dogs. Mistook a wedge of dislodged pavement for a snapping turtle and the birds started.
Anger, too. I prayed but the prayer was futile because it refused to acknowledge any power not already under my control. Is that the right way to say it? I believed I could see peace instead of discord and pain but where was I supposed to look?
And it rained a little. Stopped to listen beneath the old Maple tree on whose limbs I once read Tolkien and Frost. Down further, past the bridge, the old dog kept nudging me forward as if was the old days, as if it was. In the woods, a branch snapped and I started.
Found the younger dog after two deer race panicked into the bracken west of where we were walking back. Neighbors up early, a baby crying, the moon a rose slur amidst thinning rain clouds. Tea is no help for the bile. Sat quietly on the zafu doing nothing but nurturing an old lie, this.
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