When I was sleeping I saw the The Three Goats.
They roamed the land when it was hot and dry, they ate everything that was green and everything that was not.
The youngest was the smallest but all three were born with the sun. Beetle eyes black as old blood, and hidden in crevassed skin.
Pale rock faces; angry with the world, angry with the land, angry with each other and angry with me.
I saw them graze on dirt and I walked a peas breadth above the ground so as not to disturb them. So they would not eat me.
Always hungry, the cracks in their nostrils filled with hot dust, they saw me and yet did not see me.
Or were they just ignoring me? So I carried on until I found a tiny apple tree, with fruit the size of grapes.
I picked one and put it in my mouth, when I bit down it burst, filling my mouth with so much juice, I had to swallow three times.
Why don't the goats come here to drink? I think.
Then I see the little farmer, coming as though he were shot from a gun. He gripped that tree and yanked it out! Out and away from me.
He didn't say a word. He didn't want me there. So I left with questions and regrets.
I found myself wanting, just a bit, to be back with those goats.
I wanted to know where they had been before. I wanted to climb those crevasses and walk those roads.
Suddenly I wanted it more. I wanted it more than fruit.
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