In my dream I walk
through fields of arrowleaf balsawood
flowers done for the year
dry and wrinkled by midday sun
Tall ponderosa pines
the smell of vanilla drawn out by the heat
Above me kestrel calls
a warning perhaps
of a great bald eagle just out of sight
I stumble out of bed
look out
still dark
I know no feathered friend or foe has been
and yet
the dream so real
the scent of vanilla still in my nostrils
