Oaken

so I talk about my dreams sometimes.

    Saggy-kneed, wise-eyed tortoise. Gritty soft stretching earth; brown and bare. Footprints. Boy, hands stained with dirt. Burnt-chestnut eyes. Freckle freckle freckle. To the edge. Hop. Skip.

    I dreamed, last night, of dirt-and-bramble moors and red-leafed woods and a giant stone Buddha with his hand upraised and face serene. I stood on the great, grey hand and I sailed him, sunken to his shoulders in the foaming loamy soil. Wending my way through the trees, I came to a small clearing and dismounted the iconic enduring man. The trees drew back their hands and revealed a vast empty moor, which I walked across slowly, feeling the earth warm under bare feet. Then a large bronze bird swept down upon me from the sepia sky, and I awoke with a feeling of peace.

  It was quite odd.

  I miss the ocean. Every time I doze off in my too-hot or too-cold classes, I think of it. Grey-green, ice-veined. Glassy and fey.

The End

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