The dream emerges, coming
fast like broken fragments of film,
a scene cut from a story
I used to know.

Almost always I see him walking
on the crest of a hill bathed in golden light.
A few straggler sheep follow, and a bird rests
upon his shoulders.

Perhaps he is Jesus or the gentle-hearted
St. Francis, seeking the lost and wounded ones.
I do not know. Above him, doves descend from
brightness of sky.

The fields he walks are fallow, forgotten
by farmers who lived here once. Only a few trees
remain, but the lonely congregation lifts its hands
to a Maker who never forgets.

When the vision comes, I inevitably
strain to see beyond the top of the dried-up hillside
and awake with a crick in my neck bent to a sky
void of any clues.

The dream recedes, going
slow like broken fragments of film
or a scene cut from an old story
I used to know.