Negative

I stretch forward, straightening my arms and legs out away from me. Pulling the muscles of my back tight around my ribs. My shoulders thrill at rolling forward after the long hours spent on my back in repose.

I try to catch the remnants of my dreams now fluttering away with the stiffness in my limbs. There were many, vibrant, colorful, but vague now in the gray light of my bedroom. One with three travelers - inexplicably catholic. A hidden fugitive pope, his Arman and Mo. I try to figure out why I've named them such, all I can recall is a joke in my dream "What are your names?" "Larry, Curly and Mo."

My travelers were fighting through a hotel in Southern Utah. I remember the place. I had been there. Where we had rested after horseback riding. Sore and exhausted we had snuck in like fugitives from the canyon and luxuriated in overstuffed leather chairs. I took in the wildlife stuffed along the walls sadly. It seemed evil to take such beauty and movement and harden it for all eternity. And my travelers were fighting that evil. Some evil, they were running toward the devil, now I remember.

I didn't stay dreaming long enough to see them through. I remember I was going to feed them country fare. The stuff my Dad used to put in front of us. Grits swimming in butter. Biscuits and gravy, chunky from impatience. Baked beans with fatback. Bacon dripping long after sitting on the paper. Food I don't eat anymore since my Dad looked at my 15 year old self critically and said "You're not going to be tall, don't let yourself grow sideways." I thought him a devil back then too. But now I live in a fear of growing stout like him. In life as in my dream I'm sure the devil won.

When I make a move to leave bed my cat stretches out like me. Her long legs straight in front of her, her back curved, her fur flat and shiny. She puts out a paw, tamping down the blanket in an effort to keep me in bed. I know all she really wants is for me to keep warming her spot. The sun is shinning through the windows and curtains, bright and promising. I can almost picture the green grass pushing towards it. The idea of going out as I am, in skivvies and bare feet, luxuriating in the warmth of the sun and the growing earth.

Finally padding to the window all I see is dying. The trees, devoid of their colorful leaves, criss- cross their limbs every which way. They don't sway and trill at the blowing of the wind now. There arms look mean, sharp. They reach out and tangle with one another, making it impossible to see where one tree ends and the next begins. Instead of letting the light through their canopy softly as before they fight to hide the bright azure of the sky. I can see it fighting hopelessly to push through the brown and decay.

I think of my dream travelers. How I left them to fight the devil alone, knowing the devil would win. How I left them hungry and with no weapons beyond my horrid jokes. Looking out on the world today I only see decay and death. I think of harvest, of empty fields and unfruited trees. I think of frosts and withered flowers. Of waste and then of wick. The promise of hidden green is impossible to me. The earth is decaying.

In a dead world it's hard not to see the devil winning.