Life is but a dream.
I had a dream once about an orchard. It was strange. The trees held
peaches and the ground was charred and black. A stag erupted from a bush.
It's legs were striped of skin. It's white coat was stained in crimson,
and after it came a man. His mouth was red, and blood was smeared around
his cheeks. He followed the stag into a tree. The stag just ran into the
tree, and went through. The man followed. I went after them both, and
through the tree I stepped, wary, like a bide on her wedding night,
stepping into her new home forever more. On the other side was an orchard.
The trees were black, and the ground so green you could smell it. When we
went to the orchard in Payette, I was reminded of my dream. The orchard
itself colorful, the apples rubies, the leaves delicate emeralds hanging
from the trees in hopes of dying before having to endure winter's icy
hands. When I came to the pumpkin patch, the ground dead and near frozen,
the stalks that held the graceful fruits, dry but still there waiting for
spring to re-awaken them. The pumpkins there were lonely, the orange
against the dry dusty-rust color of the dead dirt, whose death would be
mourned by none but the farmer. I had a dream once about an orchard.
Life is but a dream.