Paintings pulled from my memories. From photos taken deep in a cedar forest, a top dry open hills, a long muddy creek beds. My hands and knees pressed into soil, my eyes with the flowers, the mosses and lichens and mushrooms as tall ferns tickle my shoulders. Deep in the woods I am alone and it feels like a dream. The moon is in the night sky. The stars shine bright. On the other side of the meadow stands a wolf of mycelium webs. A loon prince calls from still dark water. A unicorn rests on the edge of a mire. And for a brief moment, the wings of a praying mantis look like a fairy. If I lay here will antlers grow from my skull? Will my bones moss over? Will carnivorous plants reach their tendrils for me? Would I accept the wakening of my dreams? Would I welcome it? The returning.