Dream of Hang Gliding with My Mother

revision of a dream/poem from 2023

Photo by Jonathan Potter ⓒ 2023

My mother and I are flying together
in a hang glider above the Columbia River
and the desert of the Columbia Basin.

We see an enormous flock of seagulls
rising up against the backdrop
of slate gray late winter sky.

So I lean to wheel the glider around
for a better look and then we see
An equally formidable kettle of hawks.

It looks as though a rumble is about
to take place, like Westside Story,
and I’m picturing blood and feathers flying.

But then I realize we’re losing altitude.
I forget about the rumble in the sky
and I look down at the arid earth below.

I kick my legs a bit, hoping
to catch a thermal or an upward current,
but all I feel is a helpless sinking.

Our descent is gentle but irrevocable
and now I see several wolves
running along a wide path

directly below us. We’re so low
now that I can extend my foot
and pat one of the wolves on the head.

I think about it a moment and then do so.
The wolf looks up at us and perhaps the sight
of this amiable old woman next to me

stirs up a concomitant amiability 
in him and he seems to understand;
his look is friendly and unsurprised.

The wolf continues trotting along
but moves out of our way and we
make a clear and uneventful landing.

Later, I find myself back at the house.
My daughter is there and I’m telling her
the tale, but her grandmother is not there.

We got separated after the landing and
she went to see the seagulls and hawks.
I reach for my phone to call her but

it’s her phone I’ve set on the table —
they got switched. So how will I reach her?
I suppose I’ll go find her or she’ll find me.

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