The dogs tell adventure stories as they sleep. I wake from a dream of an endless farm growing ranch style houses, the old farmer and his wife across the road tend tomatoes and peppers, leave the houses , sprouting weeds among over manicured lawns. In the short distance, corn. Farther and farther, back roads that leads like old tributaries to the river. Currents do not sleep or dream but the stories stretch out on abandoned riverbanks, an assault of cement and coal dust. Power plants sprout like pokeweed along ignored railroad tracks, casinos taking root in the shadows.

There are no dreams in slot machines. Take note of the faith of sleeping dogs.