The dream was loose and on the verge of unravelling. The light was already coming through the windows and so the dream itself had lightened like an over-exposed photo. The edges were fraying and unimportant. Almost nothing was left but the sound of the thing and even that was beginning to break until the last noise of the dream was the first of waking: a strange call, from across the lake, distant but clear like something materializing through a morning mist. There was a flutter of thick wings carrying heavy bodies, a sort of heaving flap and then the sound of their calls, screeching and braking, a car in trouble, but also musical and harmonious in its discordance. The calls did not move toward him, nor way, but across the periphery of his hearing, from side to side and while his eyes were still closed he thought, "That is the most beautiful sound I will hear today. Pity that it came so early. I wonder what it was..." But when his eyes did finally open, crusty around the lashes, he said to himself, "Ah, it was only the geese," and blinked them away.
Written by J. Curt Rogers
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