I dream of feeding whole wheat bread to salmon in a deep clear river, they see me, they know who I am, they watch clandestine waiting for the right moment to take the bread, for they are hungry. Later I go to a crypt with a group of other people, and we drag out the oily black (black not brown) shriveled monster that has lived on despite attempts to bury it, to let it die, and we carry it up the steps of a sacred building, and up to the turrets, and we wait for a bolt of lightening to kill it dead once and for all as it is destined to die at this moment in this place.
I wake with little sleep, restless early in my sleep.
I stir the dogs with talk of walk.
I notice it right away, the way the forest is alive, not the usually sound of birds, and water and yesterday’s raindrops, and bugs, but a breathing, as though the rain has awakened the forest from a slumber and it is yawning and stretching towards the brilliant sun and bright blue sky.
I notice too how much easier this walk is than it was when I first came here. I no longer return home a sweaty panting mess, and the dog too is more lively and energetic, and these other two, this morning stay close to me, with H. on my heels beside Sancho most of the way up.
It is a spider web morning. That is what I call it, as I notice the webs scattered along the way, I never saw them before, it must be the light. The forest is full of them.
I cannot stop marveling in its stunning beauty. This morning.
This ordinary morning, this everyday walk, this unremarkable stream, this scarred wilderness.