In my dream we want the woods.

In my dream it’s April and raw. We resign ourselves to his sleep.

In my dream rain begins to fall outside of the restaurant at the top of the hill. We’re lined up at the door, students and teachers, joking about the trip. A student is explaining that she needs to get a band together for her project. The dark clouds boil outside.

In my dream his face darkens and we move downstairs. It’s a comedy.

In my dream the digital outline of the shack moves back and forth.

In my dream we’re clustered around the restaurant waiting for the final word on whether or not her son has survived the stroke he had on set.

In my dream the cascade is light but holds a happy dog.

In my dream I open the folder. Inside are three blue silk flowers, sent by the Harris campaign. In my hand, a white flower from Biden. Kamala Harris is two seats over in the thrumming auditorium so I try to tell her that people support her because she isn’t Biden and she shouldn’t let the white flower be included in the folder.

In my dream we need to get off the ship, so we grab the chickens and stuff them through the slats in the crate. The rest of the bag is filled with rolls of black plastic, which doesn’t help, so  I yank them out and stash them up at the front of the lecture room. Johnny Chiodini and I mug at each other and talk about used work gear.

In my dream we are glad to be in the middle of the three part challenge: we bustle around the room where the golden wooden pyramids lie open.