Slivered crystals held to the light. We circle the harvested cornfield, stalks bent like matchstick dancers frozen in time. How quiet the river is when we are sitting beneath the apple tree, holding hands.
One twines the several bandanas a certain way around the upright floor lamp, using the activity as a delay tactic. Dialogue is more about silence than anything else, a fact I am only just learning, surprise surprise. Apples with cheddar cheese, washed down with beer, a comfort.
And the sun falls from the sky and bats begin circling under a purpling canopy. Many glass bottles filled with small stones and sand, some with beach glass, others marbles. This light that is in your throat now is all the light there is.
Kneeling to see a particular chunk of quartz better. Two men talking in a field, cows milling about. When I was little I imagined driving pickup trucks, and when I finally drove them I felt far away from a child I wished to honor and so never drove a pickup again.
Snake skin, owl feather, antique nail. Last of the goldenrod leaning out where the yard narrows heading towards the horses. It's not what you see but what you gather, and what you gather is always a form of sorcery.
Stumbling where one is accustomed to gliding. How an I explain it, the Goddess appearing to both of us, as pure as polished glass, unshakeable like marble. For too long I slept, the priestess waiting at the altar.
What story are you telling and how does it intersect with stories that others are telling. Note to a future self: ghosts do not participate in dreams.
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