These dreams of being late then racing for a missed bus, an airplane
taking off, or a fleeing car haunt me nightly. This vague sense of loss
permeates these dreams as if I knew but could not help the missed chance,
the forgotten date, the long awaited arrival of the friend, the denied
Perhaps it is old age creeping up on me in the voice of William Blake-- "kiss the joy as it flies"--knowing that I have been guilty of putting off, of delaying, of excluding and negating. I look out my kitchen window and I see the expanse of lake reaching out to touch the edge of the land--this piece of reprieve we call home--and I try to catch my breath, I try to slow down and catch up at the same time, knowing, even if I am not here one day, that the land and the lake it cradles will be, will always be.
hearing before seeing a perfect flight of geese