For an unspecified amount of time, I’m crawling on my belly through fields of wet corn and then in the blink of an eye I’m pissing down some alley walking back from the pub. When she dances up ahead visible only to me, the taste of smoke hits the back of my throat and makes me cough while stumbling through a parking lot looking for a shortcut that keeps evading my grasp. It’s October, and there have been several bonfires burning, but the second I close my eyes, it’s June or July, and my girl is dancing for me. With her arms outstretched, she’s spinning in circles as fast as she can. She’s spinning so fast that she’s a mess of wild colour with no outlines. She’s energy, pure energy, with a smile that stretches the length of the horizon. Stood there lost in thought as the time changes from pm to am, she morphs and shifts around in my head, but her beauty remains the same, and all I can do is drunkenly smile. Maybe I’ll try messaging her. Remind her of how much she means to me, not only as a man but as a writer in need of someone to shake him to his bones. For she is a tree older than God and a bird that dances upon the moon and although I can’t see straight, I can see her, and she opens so many doors without even trying. Failing miserably to roll a cigarette, a cat strolls over and rubs itself against my leg. It’s a cheeky thing, and dropping to my knees, my fingers glide through its fur and rub its lower back. When I roll my stick and light my smoke, the cat gives me a knowing look just as she would, and as laughter escapes my mouth, the stalks of corn bend in the breeze and her song calls to me over the rooftops of this sleeping town.