Pigeon Dreams Thomas Ford Conlan

PIGEON DREAMS

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.