Blue Dream

Waiting for the phone to ring in a blue dream, a full moon floating out the window. It may have rung, you feel a conversation and it leaks about you the next day, maybe for years. A fiddler in green satin with her chin poised to play takes up residence in snowdrifts, and empty houses, in airports, and in the bare orchard along the river of the canyon that you keep driving by, always wanting to stop and look around. You're slow in the waiting, in the listening, not sure if you've heard, or seen, or felt...anything.