photo: jetheriot
Every now and then, in the early morning just before I awake, words will scroll before my eyes in my dream, often in fully formed sentences. This happened to me one morning about six years ago. All these sentences kept scrolling in my dream. I could read them very clearly. And as the sentences scrolled, I floated down a gravel road, the gravel road to the camp in Catahoula, formerly known as the OLD PLACE, because my dad grew up there. These are the words I woke up and wrote down. The title came later.
The two lines of gravel, a green one between them, that skirted a puddle and drove to my door. The hand on my shoulder with no one behind me. The sun-lighted platter unsettling dust. The sight of the sun on the lake from the porch, not ugly and old, only old and abandoned. The sky is a lake. The sky is a lake. The sky is a lake. The sky is a reservoir. See that old place shine.
