dreaming of driving through the mountains with my love. We stop at the side of the road to boil the percolator, looking out over a dusty yellow and faded plain stretched out at the feet of craggy jagged mountains. Sitting in the back of the van, we stick our legs out the door and rest our feet on the edge, cradling our cups and blowing the steam out into the wind.

- – -

dreaming of sitting on the edge of the van, knees poking up into the cool grey air as we rest our heels on the edge of the doorway. I look down at my brown birkenstocks and grey woolen worksocks slouched around my ankles, toes pointing inwards and jeans rolled up a couple of times at the bottom. fine yellow grit rises in soft swirls across the plain as the wind breathes a sigh of relief.

- – -

dreaming of sitting on a weathered brown picnic table, the hot dry wind blowing beneath the brim of my hat and covering the back of my neck with a soft yellowy dust. Mosquitoes hover above the bridge of my nose, and over my hands and the backs of my legs, and over everything I can see on and on into infinity. There is a field in front of me, green grass that has been bleached out into dry yellow straw by the cruelty of the unceasing wind. I watch. The wind blows; the trees dance a reply. The mountain stands quiet and stoic in the background. The wind blows. The wind blows. The wind blows. Weary, I rub the back of my neck. I swat at the mosquitoes. I drink water from my thermos. I look down at my hands, yellowed and worn with the grit. The wind blows, and I hear a peep that has been carried up on the yellowed wind. In a blink, I see a tiny brown creature peeping at me from a small mound in the field. In a blink, he is gone.

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