A dream arrives with the comforting aura of the mists of morning;

a time without shadow or warnings, as I, as horseman, unbridle and

release the animal into a broad springtime meadow — and turn back

to the barn . . . something without form to the mind, yet present as a

place of origin, around which comes the smell of coffee, unhurried,

an invitation to the new day unborn, unborn with a presence unbridled

from the continuities customary to the waking mind, effortlessly

overriden by the dream’s silent assurance that the coffee will arrive

in the form most suited to its partaking, both comforting and uncertain,

as the best dreams are, and entirely without the customary gestures of

procurement, saddle and hoof of the waking mind.