we fill are jars in reservoirs

dreamt this holiday weekend.

I am in a tree. I climbed the tree to hide from my mother. I am carving a piece of dead wood into a sculpture in the heart of the tree. I have already carved a watcher or a sentinel and placed him atop the post of the fence seperating the tree I'm in from the empty wheatfield to my left. The watcher waits patiently as the wind blows the wheat in golden waves. My mother exits the car that pulls up to the curb and enters the field with the tree between two red brick buildings. Everything is red and gold, muted color, like a hand tinted black and white photo. Like a scene out of the 50's.