Humid September darkness. A sad son sick in bed. Insomnia, nightmares, a conclave of owls outside my window, and finally black coffee and daylight.
Mounds of marigolds bloom bravely in the exhausted garden. The red dahlias overflow into the long grass. Yesterday's clean laundry hangs motionless on the lines. A grasshopper chirrs. In the distance, I hear the basso moan of a skidder dragging trees into someone's woodyard.
A shadow of the nightmares lingers . . . images of a tiny helpless stupid woman, two small girls, a terrible black-haired schoolmaster, and now I am trying to convince the woman not to leave the girls with him, I am trying to escape from the wretched travel-trailer that is the school, and now my car keys have vanished and his dreadful fleshy face is leering against my window . . .
You know these dreams.