The Ferryman is dancing a jig, high knees and fancy feet. He is flinging something out of his pockets into the river. “Plenty for everyone,” he sings. “Plenty, plenty.” He is attracting fish. He is attracting a crowd on the far shore. Curious, the people begin to climb into their boats to make their way over. “Get ready,” he sings. “The people are coming.”
I falter at the size of the crowd. I am afraid they will break over me like a wave.
“Make the garden ready to receive them,” the Ferryman urges, flicking his fingers at me.
The garden is the thing, with its paths and turnings and walls of green. The garden will channel the torrent into intimacy.
Welcome. Welcome.
OOO
dream stories 
The Other Bank.
Unstable gait on a pebbly path. They skitter underfoot and leap into the current. Crowd is a wall at the river’s side as we collectively lean inquisitively forward.
The Ferryman and the girl.
The wind cripples the man’s meanings. His whirling limbs, however, speckle the river in exploding circles lost in torrent. We must cross to capture his words. The wall breaks like the thin membrane that it is and we spill into our boats. The Ferryman has called after all. He has sown his seed and we have little choice but to be his harvest.
The man dances and the girl stands,
knowing the secrets she has always known.