The Chaotic Holler

Might we review our dreams? The dream? That night on the fire escape with brandy against the wind and professions of love that - twenty-five years later - are still clear, still absent an echo?

Or was it perhaps simply the conversation - once had - that made possible another, longer, conversation about what it means to face one's fears? Trace one's tears down an unfamiliar face? In the dream we prayed and the prayer was answered.

Yet inevitably one wakes up. Thus the moonlight bright on the night table. And later still stars and tea while the dog tears through far off bracken, rousting foxes who will - if alive - return to badger the hens.

You can't fool me, except when you do, albeit with my permission. I said a bad word. I had a bad day?

A sad day for horses and horse owners alike. Or we are simply peering up into what appears to be - and for all I know is - immeasurable darkness? Who wouldn't channel the chaotic holler?

Stop writing, I'm feeling you. Just-made yogurt dressing dripping down the side of the bowl and like that, you're lost. It's summer somewhere always.

And with that, this. Again, a kiss.