Dreamed 2018/10/30 by Wayan
I'm in the general store of a small inland town. Ranch land. People mostly look Native American; a reservation? Where AM I? Don't know the local language--the few signs in it look like Lakota, maybe. Sure not Navaho or Hopi. And the land's too sagebrushy. I think I'm farther east than I've ever been--out on the High Plains.
On a rack, I find some odd postcards by a local artist. Trains blended with landscapes. Like...
Dry prairie and a marsh with herons. Night is coming on, but the dark is physical, a cutout silhouette--the black Boxcar of Night, rolling along the Horizon Line, with its great dark dream-eye logo. The eye that see the big picture, the dark picture--what the day eye misses.
A snaky micromesa shaped like a steam train, with little talus slopes to the stony railless trackbed. If you're on THAT train, you need to crawl out a window. Going nowhere fast!
But the cardbacks don't say whether the artist dreamed 'em. Too bad! They don't qualify.
And then I wake.
NOTES IN THE MORNING
Silly me. They are dreams. They do qualify.
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