In this dream, I meet friends at a farm. We are going to work. I have brought many large fish I caught in the ocean; later we'll have them for dinner. My mother is there to welcome me. I wear my father's clothes, his stiff denim jacket and jeans, his heavy boots.
We go to work, but it begins to rain. It is the dark of rain in Ohio at the equinox, the year turning toward winter.
Now we must drive through the city, the steep hills and traffic of San Francisco. I drive my father's old loud truck, its low rumbling gears. I am good at it, we make it through the austere canyons of the city, its garbage and self-interest.
We return to the farm, but now it is surrounded by the city. It is a small plot bordered by chain-link fence. The sun is hammering the hard-packed soil, the yellowed leaves, the dry grass. We stand around the wilting plants in their beds, our hands empty, unsure what to do now. The city noise rising around us.