On the second day of summer, I woke to the sound of birds, and in my mind there were dozens of them, and they were tiny--Chickadees maybe, though I'm terrible at identifying birds--and they were in the back yard eating the terrible little bugs off our enormous willow tree. Although, as I woke up more fully, I realized of course they were in the front yard, the birds, and the side maybe, and Theo was having a lovely time watching them through the window, a cat in the open window for summer, like a dream of a life. And then Gus was bothering him, waving his mouth around Theo's head, and the cat gently swatting with one paw, like a story of a life with a cat and a dog. And then I forced myself to write down the supremely boring dream still lingering, because that's how to get those weird dreams growing, you have to plant a seed of I will remember you.
There was a credit card in my dream, symbolizing no doubt my constant fretting about money, and a table full of guests who left me to pay the bill at a fancy restaurant (but in the dream I knew I'd be reimbursed, if only I could find my credit card under linen napkins and a chess board and the table setting of the family arriving next, for some reason ordering breakfast when what we'd just eaten was dinner). And there you have it.