76

Right now. Night has lifted but the breath of dreams lingers. Weighted down by river’s gravity, snagged on low tree branches, waiting for the sun. The sky presses heavy on the morning crows and perpetual swifts as the breath flows toward an estuary of the exhaled, a delta that forms around the many types of sleep before finally running into the subconscious sea; no shallow shelves, all deep trenches.  There are monsters.