The dream at the end of the day, sided by tall cactus.
A dream I go back to every four years.
Broken cycles gathering tomorrow’s dreams.
Darkness comes first beneath the mountains.
Layers of orange and indigo-blue dye above blackness.
Stars moving in over a clear sky left by thieves.
Fresh lemons squeeze in a glass of tequila.
Little dark shadows with wings flying above.
An empty glass left on the white wicker chair.
Thoughts of tomorrow’s first cup of coffee.
I turn on the iPod connected to the Bose.
She in Houston, I in Tucson — a text message alert.
Little things, the makings of dreams.
Fun facts, or fake news?