It has been so hot and humid my brain feels cooked. In the middle of the hot afternoon I took a nap and I dreamed of ice on our pond. In the evening I ran across a poem by Robert Wrigley called fish dreams and the contrasts of the grass eating carp sunning themselves in our June pond with the icy winter dreams came full circle.
Narrow and cold the fish's world, and sleepless too,
they say. But think of the long night winter must be,
how, nuzzling the dark silt depths,
even a trout might dream of her--that hand,
the bottomless sky, the same terrible blue of the eye.
From fish dreams by Robert Wrigley
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