Dreams that flow from word to sentence.
With the kick of a pebble
or the crash of a wave.

Trace a path along the river of sand.
To cross a river simple in name.
For the Dead River has an old fish as it's end
sentinel where it used to flow.
The sand had taken over.
Drying the Dead River feet from it's destination
Always in frustration and never fulfilled.

I cross into the next realm
Beyond where the ghostly river flows.
No souls remain.
Just the sand, the pebbles,
the green caked algae,
and the ocational balloon.
Where have all gone.
Steps seem endless
The metronome keeps swaying.
Nothing but sand and the rest.
 
The end finally approaches
a wall
a blockade of rocks.
So it seems
I draw a stance ever so near.
the white rocks change
They move they shift
They no longer appear as stone
The feathers make this clear
dozen after dozen
seagull after seagull

My presence is made to them
They shutter and argue
They bicker and waddle.
I approach as if uncaring, but whisper in footstep
My path draws in the sand where the feathers once were.
They reposition to watch as if a marathon were at hand
My thought are to the image.
The sight that can be seen.
I draw nearer and capture an image
I stomp once, they hop
Clamour twice they take flight.
They surround the view

Few take their courage to fly overhead.
Watch dogs of their realm.
For there are souls here.  They just have to
be seen.  To image them

With that seen I end my images
I stop my stomps and turn for the river
the one of sand that dries the once true river
 
As I return, the feathers cheer me on.
Along the path a branch stands alone
Bending over to the soUls.
Point to where they dwell.
Ordering to return and be amongst them
Some day.
Life is where I dwell.
Some day we shall all be feathered.
A fluttering soul.
An angel