Then he launched into a rousing piece of music. I snapped off my bedside radio and awoke for the day.
First I read the online NY Times, including an obit for a writer I really loved and had discovered ages ago.
Jim Harrison, whose lust for life — and sometimes just plain lust — roared into print in a vast, celebrated body of fiction, poetry and essays that with ardent abandon explored the natural world, the life of the mind and the pleasures of the flesh, died on Saturday at his home in Patagonia, Ariz. He was 78.
Went online to borrow one of his poetry books and his film Legends of the Fall made from one of his books.
The dream was so real I had no idea I was dreaming.
Was in a state of great fright, brought on by the book I'm reading
My house was being buried by snow. I woke up in the dream and walked down my carpeted upstairs hallway to glimpse what was going on outside.
The floor rocked as I walked, so much so that I grabbed the bannister so I wouldn't fall over.
My word, I thought, we must be having an earthquake. Hope we're not buried alive!
The latter thought probly came from an audio book I'm listening to in the car, where a man is buried in quicksand.
Hold on for one sec, while I wright (sic) a quick poem now.
Sounds delight me now.
Tires sloshing down the street.
A bird, like a whistle, calls
from an unseen tree.
Nothing stops him
in mating season.
Rain, from my upstairs
window, taps like Santa
on my roof
A calm sound, an
ancient sound, that
makes me a child
again, safe as
Daddy tucking me
under the covers