A Dream

Firstly, it was the whisky and the yogurt. Both of which were stowed in the bottom of the canoe before pushing off the dock into the middle of the creek. We had but a few hours after the lockdown was announced to get out of town before curfew and were not exactly prepared.

We paddled for hours, meandering, passing the bottle before the county line bridge was visible beyond the shoals. With renewed vigor, we paddled into the canyon ahead. Ancient petroglyphs loomed on the rock faces above. Most had been “xed out” centuries later by missionaries. Purified with Roman crosses.

We paddled. Bouncing off every rock. Endless rocks, glyphs, crosses.

Still, the bridge lies ahead. Always round the next bend. Always out of reach.

At last, I bail. But the whiskey has taken my limbs. And all I can see are the crucifixes overhead as I flail and sink.