11-29-2021

Terror in the rumbling of the great river I cross every morning on my commute, talk radio a little bit louder, I’m a little bit nervous, shaking it off well into lunch, still nervous, still not totally comforted by the grey and beige.

Wine at home, wife comments on replacement of my old beer. Snow is piling up outside.

I saw a woman dancing fires atop the hood of my car from the office window. I try to ignore such things.

I have dreams after dreams of the river. Curtains pierced by needles, borders dissolved and waters flooding in, deserts springing vital into swamplands.

Rolling over in cotton sheets, trying to ignore the pounding rain. Driving through the dark highway, trying to ignore the isolation. Hiding in the hotel, trying to ignore the inhuman footsteps in the hall outside.

I turn the radio a little bit louder, crossing the river again on my way to work. I try to sing along and pray it all works out as the river becomes harder and harder to ignore.