PI G E O N D R E AM S Thomas Ford Conlan Time has passed such that I cannot recall whether I fished the Pigeon River in my waking life or in a specific dream. Clearly, I stand in the river after dusk. High water nearly overcomes the top of my waders. I pull the draw string tight about my chest. A foul smell permeates from deep greenery too thick for my eyes to penetrate. I fear a black bear stalks from the bank. How did I get to the river’s center? How shall I plan my retreat? Where can I find a protruding root, a foot step? Rushing upstream, rubber legs struggle against strong current. My feet search for solid gravel beneath the continual flow. Hurry, hurry, the bear chases. A breeze floats into my bedroom window. A mourning dove coos. An oriole whistles me awake.
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