Shenandoah (or: Hunters of spring)


We were the hunters of spring as we drove south, until we rested in the green comfort of the valley. Distant tall guardians kept the mobile homes and scattered cows safe as we climbed up the blue ridge in hope of meeting the good gods of this earth.
We were higher than clouds, softer than stones and we sang as we marched through bear-wretched fallen trees trunks. Leaves unfolded as we advanced.
We were the two-mile-adventurers, kissing tears and scratches, chasing away bad dreams to late night’s soothing dance of fire.


In my dream I won a competition I was vaguely aware of. I did what needed to be done and left, without knowing I must wait patiently for the judges to announce the winner. For that, my gain was taken from me and given to my best friend. People came and told me. They spoke in fractured sentences as to ease the rage of loss but I was happy. So happy.
I kept saying in astonishment: “what are the odds of something like this happening? It was meant to be, had to be. I love her more than millions”. And I knew, in my dream, that my currency in this life was awe and wonder, and the legend of it all:

One day, many many years ago, I walked the streets of Copenhagen. It was a cold gray autumn afternoon, a gap between times – the one has just died  and the next was yet to be lived. I was lonely and in fear of a faceless future. I sat down in tearless sorrow on the pavestones by the Nyhavn canal and then I saw a flame-like jellyfish, its tentacles caught in a cluster of swept-away broken branches. I picked up a twig and carefully separated the living from the rotten until it was free to pulse away.
And time-embodied hope began ticking once again.





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