About a month ago I dreamt that I was walking down a tree-covered path and reading a poem. It was written on a bit of brown paper, and as I made my way to a cabin to meet my friends, I thought about what had inspired the man who wrote it.
When I woke, I found that I could recall the poem perfectly, and I quickly found a pen.
Firecrackers
Whistling in the night.
The night was whistling, too.
