The river rose in the night, flooding the piles of time washed ashore. In this dream I stood in the wild light of moonshine and shadows, watching the alluvial years and matter being washed away. The river rose and gave company to my released yelling, purifying what I really was.
I saw the crow watching me, then flying away, leaving a crow-shaped hole in the air for all the rivers in the world to flow through. White lunar heat surrounded me, though I knew it should be cold. Cold, because it was night and the river was rising. Cold, because my planet was washed away. Cold, because of the waters curing the bed of my river. But it was warm, getting warmer, and the sky was tempestuous and wild. And a silver thrill filled out my moonlit dream and an inexplicable knowledge emerged, frozen by morning.
This night I woke to find the full moon shining onto my face. And I lay smiling within the warmth of my own shadow that had become a bed for me.
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