Gus found peace dreaming he was dead

Summer solstice, 2007. As the evening came on we spoke of dreams. We ate. We sipped wine with the maker. The maker’s wife told us stories of nuns. Nuns who unknowingly ventured back and within, and though afraid, dreamed. They dreamed of a time before nuns, a time of maypole dancing, of stone monuments, of bonfires, of celestial alignments, of harvests, antlers and a shining moon burning against a setting blue sky.

All good things, Wig