I used to dream

I used to dream.

A rushing river, stained copper by the decay of summer’s foliage and tinted by that blistered autumn sun.
A powder encrusted hill, crisp and clean, compressed with every ski’s gentle glide in the mornings of February.
A muddy pine forest, kissed gently by the soft spring drizzles and covered by the cool dew of the chilled, foggy air.
A purple, melting night, carved by the laughs of others sitting on the shore and the drone of nature’s most ephemeral vocalists.

HER

I don’t dream anymore.

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