On my window the worlds inside the raindrops are upside-down, with the sky at the bottom and the earth on top. What if you were a bird flying across that upside-down sky? Would you be trapped inside the drop’s edges? Would you guess that a hundred other worlds, much like yours, with birds much like you, were gliding down a transparent surface beside you? Would you feel the slide and make up myths about what it means?
I have no answers. I go outside where up is still the direction of the sky. But then I come to the puddles at the side of the road where trees, of all things, are upside down, too, or, like the mother spruce, stretched on her back in the water, clay smeared across her and a bed of pebbles at her side as if it were all some surrealist work of art.
Even if you walk to a puddle’s far side so that the trees look upright, they are not solid, as they seem to be in the world I (laughingly) call real, and stones hang above them in their watery sky.
Nevertheless, the scene has a kind of beauty to it.
Tomorrow I will wake to sunshine and this will all be gone, these dreams I dreamed on this rainy winter day. “But don’t worry,” I say to them, wrapping them in soft sheets of memory. “I will remember you. I will remember.”