My dreams, which I don’t usually recall—don’t commonly sense that I have, were especially vivid last night. Perhaps it was the lateness of sleep or the lateness of waking. Perhaps it was fatigue. I have been travelling. I have walked out of the Grand Canyon. Flown back to the Northwest. Driven home, where I arrived last night after 1.00 am. Then dreams took me back to the Grand Canyon: curving water with pink and yellow highlights—the shuffle of people, new friends, at breakfast and dinner—a kitchen in sand—my sleeping bag on sand—the Big Dipper at one canyon rim at sleep and at the other rim at waking—walking on cobbles—clambering up stone—the fragrance of service berry.