A thousand winters in one. One of masks, half masks and the unmasked. Where did the bed go when I layed down? Did I dream it? Somewhere between the flannel sheets and a soft quilt of the softest layer of feathers?
And to what reality have I awakened? Can anyone tell me? What exactly has transpired? Is it like 2020? Is it like 2021?
From the answers snarled and shouted glee, I am even less certain that I am awake, for these answers reflect not a trace of the place I remember when I was lulled into winter's to hibernation.
Perhaps another bout of slumber will wash over me and I will surface safe, warm and radiant in the bed I cannot find.
My feet find the ground and my left shoulder aches like a Mack truck has introduced itself less gently than I wished. What has occurred? Has winter really gone? Is this mid-May?
My eyes focus, sunlight through spring hail greets me and I find myself at First Light on Narrow Pond.
Cool air enters my lungs, tools come to my hands, and the strange dream that surrounded me fades to stranger eddies which threaten at any moment to erupt, to engulf my consciousness and the planet I inhabit.
No need I tell myself, to
feed nor justify these strange eddies. There is hunger in my belly which needs attending more,
shelter I need for refuge, and
water for waking thirst.
So I exert the tools to the material while I continue the design On Narrow Pond. I hope all can find the soil upon which to stand, to breathe unburnt air, and watch the sun caress soil's seeds into green.