Things are coming to life, not dying.  Small, new trees growing out of large, old dead ones.  The water comes up to the bending, graceful limbs of the trees.  Their elegant fingers trail through the waves.  They seem so old, and so bent.  Bent with age, bent with gravity, bent and bowed by time.  Time bends and breaks, grows and renews.  But it seems paused here now.

Bent with age, bent with gravity, bending to the ground, sweeping reaches.  A loon dives.  I swear it was a mammal.  The loon is a large bird, a curious bird.  I come closer and further, and closer still.  The air is filled with the relaxing noise of lapsing tide of lapsing time.

There is a maypole, wrapped in flesh.  The water is eating and the island is dying.  OH!  It’s from my dream again.  This is where the tombstones changed to crosses changed to a maypole.  The wind and waters dance around it.  The murk is in stasis holding love, while the wind pushes the littlewater over quickly, in a rush to catch the shore before it stands back up.

It’s colder than ever now.  The rain hits the leaves of the big trees surrounding us like walls of a building.  The water under the cliff walls speaks to us as if it’s calling us to come down.  The ground is soft with perished leaves, wet and soggy from the midnight rain.  The air speaks to us with a light breeze from the water making the branches whisper on the douglas firs.

The branches whisper on the dougas firs.  The water gurgles out an absent-minded song to the rocky terrace above it.  Hushed fall voices in the treetops, crushed leaves lay, they are remnants of past talks – the old conversations of wooden sentinels that guard the bay.  They stand there, fixed like mountains, they hunker down in the rain.  Patter, Patter and clicks and pops of twig and branch and leaf and rocks and the small pinging songs of the rain echo in waves around us.

I found the triangle from my dreams, I feel like I should climb the cliff like the tunnel and talk to death, the two children, and watch the wooden crosses turn to stone headstones.  The water has ninety degree currents, and it’s like I run into my lover, we are woven.  We are woven.  I reach and grab for the cliff from which I fell, and wake the gnarled fist to be permenant.