What Is Hunting Us

What Is Hunting Us

My hound dog sleeps at my feet. His body shudders with dreams and they move through the threads of the thick quilts and blankets that cover me. Dreams enter us at the places where threads cover our skin, the woven threads and skin aligning, or, more directly, through the soles of our feet. Dreams enter hound dogs by day through the smooth black pads of their paws, when they run. Not being clothed with threads, all of the dreams of animals enter them straight through the earth.

I dream we are in a field. It is stubble, the stumps of grainstalks left after reaping. It is winter, fog. A gray rabbit is running through the field. The rabbit is a silver fire that trails across the stubblestalks and burns up at the horizon. My dog chases. They, both of them, rabbit and hound, cut a path across the earth that is both flat and curvature, both winding and straight, as all paths across the earth are.

Finish reading at The RS 500. 

{painting by Andrew Wyeth, “Winter Fields,” 1942, public domain

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