In the dream, we live in a Victorian style house with lots of windows and turrets. The windows open out onto the views of the land. The land, of course, is why we live here. The land is crowded with trees: poplar, Jack pine, cottonwood in the lowlands by the swamp. All around us, the clouds spring from the treetops giving an impression of a wattled sky line. Bird calls echo the depth of our souls. The wood floor warms up and the house fills with light. In safety, we emerge from our blankets. The constant momentum and buzzing energy keep us afloat.
The cow bellows from the barn telling us to let down her milk; the goats in their stalls hunger for grass and grain; rabbits nibble on their own toenails. The captive creatures wait for us as if we were gods who could put everything right. The kitten and the old cat wrestle; the old cat bites him. The kitten runs away and hides. We find our place in all of this getting and giving, but we are self-conscious and unsure of how to move. We have always been told what to do.
The turret is a watchtower for fires, for storms, for returning family. We are reminded of the widow’s watch and the fleets of Nova Scotia, how the sea eats the sailors. Specs of sand in the enormity of existence, we are humbled but still climb to see, to know, to imagine conquering. What to conquer now that everything is in decline? Conquer our own appetites? We imagine the next banquet. The banquet and its promise drive us.