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Wash

In this dream, opposite sides of a gulch. A wash, actually: this is the desert, and the rains here come with such sudden force that they butcher the landscape without grace. Or with all the grace of liquid, slope, and gravity. The wash is dry now, as it is most the year, except when it is deepening. Scrub, sage, greasewood, tumbleweeds dot its eye-burning sands. Scent of them all hung in the dry air. The air also charged with something else, electricfeeling, humming, akin to the buzzing of crickets or grasshoppers, and that something else crawls along my dreamskin. It’s not the crackle of high-power lines, but it raises hairs the same way. There’s a splintered, haphazard bridge spanning the arroyo, constructed of old-style, creosote-soaked phoneline poles and rail ties, held together with rail spikes. Chemical stink of the poles melding with arid plant scents. Also, suddenly, the nasally zing of gasoline complicates the mix. The bridge, apparently, is primed for burning. I realize dreamself is smoking, with pleasure, relishing every drag. Every so often he considers the cigarette and then looks to the bridge. Drag again, exhale again. I wake before he flicks or doesn’t.

Categories: Anecdotes.

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