I came home and lay on the bed. The house was empty, no one was home. My dog lay down beside me. Outside I could hear rain in the trees, rain mixing it up with the last leaves. What a day it had been. Human misunderstandings, people reliving their old wounds, each room a proscenium arch. I fell asleep then. And I don’t know why but I dreamt I was in Norway and it was spring and I was walking an old ox up a hill, the two of us happy in the way of human-animal kinship that we had lived through another winter.
Planet of the Blind 
and the old dude’s son fled years ago to Oslo to study poetry, and nobody knows what became of him.
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Of course, the actual dude in Norway has chilblains that fill his entire soul with sharp, stabbing pain so that he curses his miserable mud-filled existence, and the last thing that the old, arthritic ox wants to do is climb up a freakin’ hill at the crack of dawn with the damn farmer dude relentlessly nagging at his heels.
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We’re having that kind of day today, minus the ox.
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