He's become a bit of a dreamer. He's learning to take some quiet moments where he goes to the corners of his imagination just to see what is there. He walked one plank at a time, lost in a world of his own, avoiding all cracks perhaps to spare breaking his mother's back or just to avoid whatever boogeyman may have been lurking in the space between the boards. It was a hazy day in the interior with the smoke from the fires blowing on in, and it made a surrealist dream of our reality amongst the shrugging mountains and the ankle kissing bulrushes and the twinberries and the fireweed. We meandered alongside a river that undoubtedly has been a timeless gathering place; at its flank, I envisioned the thousands of age-old footprints that have settled into its grassy mud banks to come to meet and talk and catch salmon and wash up and drink of its crystal goodness. And now, it is dwarfed and infantilized by the roaring highway and the serpentine railroad that mimic its spine through the interior. It's just a little forgotten ditchside wisp, now--the tears of the land, the elder that nods off into the shadows as a new corridor emerges. This land has a way of making me a dreamer, too, lost in the corners of my own imagination, peering between the planks to see what lies beneath.