He has never dreamed of being a lake in the high mountains, and now he wonders why. Surely there could be no better, in the way of dreamy aspirations:to be clear and cold and swum through by trout. To allow the sunlight far into your depths, to have depths no one will ever visit. To be ceilinged by ice and many feet of snow in winter, to shine pure blue into the pure blue of the sky, to show the stars.
The stars, to be drunk by wild animals. And to admit an occasional human, who, because of the mermory of having been there, might dream of being there. Being there. Not a visitor but a dreamer, dreaming this very lake is what he’s always wanted to be.
By Robert Wrigley