The pocket of the mountain is stuffed, the coin of the realm the dreams of the mountain dweller. 

    The mountain mantle, green, or dusty color, fits all, long-legged coyote in his den, or the long-legged lawyer on his den computer.   This is their dream, and mine, the peace and quiet away from city sirens.

        I hide in the mountain pocket, my dreams like breadcrumbs, to be followed by others of my kind, who stuff the mountain pockets till it can hold no more.  The dreams of the coyote are to hunt the rabbit;   the dreams of the lawyer to watch the rabbit run from his dog.

                           Can dreams collide, like meteors in the sky?


                                                                                                                                       (written in Fallbrook prior to 2007)