The landscape of the imagination begins at a creekbed—lavishly carpeted. Sporangia nod and bob their greetings, while the cascade - fed creek babbles of the goings-on that I’ve missed since last I came.A fallen tree, beginning to forget what it used to be, becomes my seat, and I put in my feet. The water is cold and awakens me, as though I’ve been dreamwalking all along.
