I made a storm.
Before that, on the table, the new widower punctured my limbs and ears, drew blood at the third eye. He left me to align and later held my neck and asked me what I saw. I told him, an expanse of tall grasses blowing on a white-cloud clear day, but I was on one side of a short wooden rod fence. An Eastern Bluebird appeared in my left hand and seemingly near death, discombobulated. Suddenly a worm appeared in its beak, and if flew off, revived. I hopped the low fence and began walking through the expanse of grass. My dead dog was with me. It felt futile, just grass forever.
Resigned to it, but then a lion. A massive male lion walking to me, conveying protection, as a familiar. It lead me to a tree I climbed to rest. I picked and ate the tree’s fruit in the shade. Satisfied, it left to hunt, returning with a bloody muzzle. It slept under the tree.
We awoke and kept walking, but just grasslands. The other dog joined us. I tell the lion the dog isn’t food and the lion accepts this, leading us on. There are more of us now, but I wonder if this is just it, forever, the same landscape.
Later, I see a well under a tree. I pull up the rope up. Inside a bucket is midnight blue silk cloth. I lower it again and draw up a silver spoon. I think of my Grandfather. Again, and this time it’s a green frog inside the bucket. I put the items in a hip pouch and lower it once more. A yellow canary or goldfinch rides up on the side of the bucket and flies away.
That night I turn on a show. In it, a woman walks out of the exact house I dreamed that I owned, over a year ago.
Last night I made a storm outside that cracked at the ground and shook the houses like shoulders. Went to bed sweeping at the sky for the breeze to break heat, and rain so I wouldn’t have to water. Weather is not stubborn.
