Looking down into the bowl, I could not help but cry.

I just woke  from a dream in the early afternoon. I was someone else, an Indian with braids. Someone had passed on, a woman, and some people had gathered. I was planning to offer tobacco, a buffalo altar. When someone spoke to me about her, a tribute song they heard on the radio, I could no longer hold my tears.

Waking with a mild headache, a picture in my mind of cigarettes laid across the back of a small wooden buffalo, a vague sense of loss. I push it all back with plans of a buttermilk waffle in the kitchen, nothing fancy, just an Eggo in the toaster.

Last night the moon in it's ultra brightness seemed to be listening intently. I'm glad I can still dream.