FLOWER MOUNTAIN

That night I dreamed I met a Sasquatch named Yellow Bud Foot. He was waiting on a path near a wedding at Plymouth Rock. I threw cold baked potatoes at the cave of his mouth. He sang a poem of gratitude, “Wait. Remember old Yellow Foot when you travel this knot again.” The place where I walked in the dream was a knotted path on Flower Mountain. My life, likewise, may be a fascinatingly strange movie. I wait and watch the scenes unfold, unravel, bud and progress.