Yesterday I took my walk late in the afternoon, and there was not enough sun for the usual suspects to dazzle my lens. Suddenly I heard a single perfect voice. I turned my face to a bare branch over my head…and raised my camera. Later during a conversation about American Naturalists, that by nature of its depth went late into the evening, I was reminded of the writing of Annie Dillard about Tinker Creek. Sometimes I must wallow in the words of others who pull my heart strings describing experiences with walking dreams. Here are phrases from a segment that took my breath away: “Something broke and something opened. I filled up like a new wineskin…I was the lip of a fountain the creek filled forever, I was ether, the leaf in the zephyr, I was fresh-lake, feather, bone. When I see this way, I see truly. As Thoreau says, I return to my senses.” And this morning a phrase comes to me. I am the dreamer, I am the dream.