The Buck of the buck.

Last night I had a dream I was "buck" at Buckhorn. And. it. was. awesome. I dreamed I was running with Hank and Frieda past the kitchen, past the sun-drying laundry being blown by the wind and into the meadow. I ran through the wild-flowered meadow and past the confluence and headed up to the ridge. By this time my dream became even better because I dreamed that the dogs weren't with me anymore but that I was now a dog running up on the ridge. (Yea, of course I was a mutt/lab mix...goes without question people). I got up to the ridge just in time before the sun was setting and I laid down in the grass. Then in my dream I started having a dream while I was a dog. I heard a British woman's voice that sang me a song, or a poem of sorts. Her voice began out way too high-pitched and opera-like, which made me want to strangle my dog ears. But then softly and gently I heard her singing words all too familiar. It was a poem I had written there quite a time ago. I had been obsessing over Emily Dickinson's style-meter and her proper and beautifully ornate English words. Her style made me tingle inside, mmmm mmmm. Her words were full of poignancy and like beloved Flannery's stories, I never knew what would come of it in the end.

Oh beautiful blades of grass
How you sway to and fro,
And to sways you
You seldom hither to know

But yet your graceful movement
Does much to catch the eye
And if you did so alone,
I'm afraid I would rather pass on by

And alas as a chorus of dancers--
As waves of elegance collide
So do I, join you, in this perpetuating
mystery, well disclosed, well disguised.


And then I woke up. It was so nice to revisit Buckhorn. It was so nice to hear me try to be like Emily Dickinson. And it is always nice to receive that little nugget of peace that God whips out onto ya. Just because it was a dream was it not real? Things outside of this world happen to us all the time. And they are completely and perfectly real and unreal all at the same time.