The Spread

In the dream I have, I fly on wings of eagles, to a wooden house on a dusty plane.

Rippled and dirty windows peered out from a paint-flecked clapboard face, at nothing except the gentle scrub brush hills chasing to the horizon.

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There is a wooden house, formerly white, standing alone in a field of tall, golden swaying grass. It is an old house, paint badly peeled, porch roof askew and its bottom step replaced with a random board.

The front gate stands permanently open, and only a small part of a picket fence remains. Fromt he way the scrub grass grows taller in a square around the house, you can see where the fence once was, since apparently the grass was more difficult to mow up against the fence.

The windows are rippled and dirty, yet almost miraculously unbroken.

There is a well worn path from the porch steps to the gate, as well as along the inside what reamined of the fence.

Yet, there's no trace of road or path leading up to or anywhere near the house, outside what was once the fence perimiter. It's almost as if the entire homestead was transported from somewhere else.