We mill about the sloped end
of a sunny field where Chefs throw paper
airplanes back and forth like footballs.  

A herd of bystanders trots down to join us.
The air is charged with anticipation –
an emergency or the county fair is about
to manifest.                        

                       Intellect is trained to reject
experience unless it can impose a context.  
But dreams have context baked in,
even the one we nickname “waking life.”