As he is in my memory, Handsome Red
Two of our horses were in the dream, the Arabians, both of whom perished last year. So, too, the miscreant aptly named Pyewacket— a fierce disagreeable little cat whose provenance is known only inasmuch as she is the progeny of one of the feral cats that took up residence in the barn a few years ago.
I was trying to connect with the horses at turns. But my Night shade was finding them, not the real me— a defensive version, relating to Pye; always the trickster version,
It spooked and scared the horses, the gentle kind— So they told me, in their way, I must find them as myself.
I whispered in my sleep “I don’t know how.”
And Red somehow telegraphed the message to me through what technology he found in that place, it told me
When the stars are going out—
And you’re looking for a face before you leave—
Make it mine.”
And I tried like hell to escape the deep molasses of sleep, to find him; to remember— To shake it all off and just recall that one moment, of him.
Him, merged with my childhood; Magic; the Elysian Fields, the Farm— the Infinite; revisiting me. And I did, sort of— but he was talking about when the Stars Go Out. So I’ll meet him when I die.
I have to wait. (I’ll always look for his face.)
Animals are the closest I get to religion.
. . .