Cibola 3

I awake in the dark and shake free of sheets & blankets, of down-filled quilt. The rituals of waking– the long, hot shower, the coffee–give my mind the chance to keep drifting, let memory make what it will of the contours of sleep. Oddest of all are the dreams in which one awakes, forgetting all rituals. And it seems normal to go out naked, for instance, in the middle of winter. The snow’s alive, remember? It ripples, blue flames slip through the trees like fish. I feel fur sprouting all along my spine.