Late Spring but not without a pinch of winter left in air. Sunshine everywhere—a bright layer over the top of everything, no real contrast to separate from a dream.

Moving out the door towards the side of the house and into the bushes, as if gliding over the grass, moved by light. I’m hardly aware of myself, my edges fluid and indistinct.

No real body.

No thinking.

What would it take to enter this dream, to let it take me completely? Hard now to even recall it—fog slowly lifting off water, footprints erased by tides.

Whispers of voices from the kitchen above as we’d sneak out in the morning, before anyone caught wind of our plan, with baskets to hide our bounty as we creeped into the Raspberry bushes and ate until our lips stained, quietly laughing to each other while saving the best in our pockets.

For years I’ve heard you calling, “don’t let anyone see what we’ve done”.

A voice I know to be yours, enduring through time. The sound of the running creek beside the house, the smell of fresh mountain air, its hands all over me—calling me out to myself.