Always lots of people arriving, socializing.
Start and finish in the living room; clear view of outside porch, pool, beach.
House is either Victorian wood frame, tall and eventually on fire,
Or made of glass, low, modern and full of water.
I'm inside, then out, then in...
Each time there is an 'after' story of what remains.
I am curious, patient, open.
Usually I wake before the object/subject is revealed.
This morning I stayed. The house was made of glass, sleek, clear. Viewing its history, flashes of flood unfold. Now, I am listening to unfamiliar guests hinting of a big man's death and of the little dog's survival. The pooch swam in circles, they say, patiently paddling for days, through these flooded rooms, floating debris and he survived. He's right here, look, small and scruffy. Shoulder injured from the constant exertion, but all fixed up now, healing nicely, they say.
He's beside me, looking out through the glass wall, silent eyes full of experience, calm, present.
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