Wild flowers pop out among the grass and pollen weaves through the air.  I think maybe I can see fairies riding on the backs of pollen.

But if I look too hard they’re gone.

Day turns darker blue.

I breathe.

“Why are you here?” asks a voice from the darkness.

Then a black wolf jumps from behind a bush, snarling as it comes this way.

I pull out my sword, my wrists are shaking.  His growl is low and guttural, I drop the weapon and run, pumping my arms and legs, pressing back the air as I go.  But after a while I can’t get my breath anymore and I turn around to see where the wolf is.  But the wolf is gone.

Seasons change.

The color of chestnuts painted across the trees and other trees are yellow like the Anjou pears. The trees appear soft and and are gently tossing their leaves on the grass. Giving up themselves to their dead mother.

And I fall too, falling on top of the leave’s graves. The stars above shine like maps in the sky, I look at bear, lobster, and bird, and the air let’s out a fresh breeze around me.

Old songs return. I hear the distant rumble of Bear’s drum, he is said to be wearing a blue feather and a maroon silk vest, embroidered with round fruits.  But no one ever sees, they only hear the distant rhythmic sound from the mountains.

I grab the junk from my pocket, relics, that is what they will be, but they are just worthless scraps that I happen to carry with me, a bottle cap, a handful of wildflower seeds, and a pog with a biker hog on it with a large grotesque silver nose ring. But one day I will lift up a box and see these and think of it as a treasure,  marking the point of who I once was.


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