Pond Dreams

I can't always put everything I need to know together in my waking hours, so I really look forward to nighttime and dreams. Last night's dream was odd, though. Just a name, over and over, without even a body to go with it: Henry David. Henry David. Henry David. I usually get something a little more to go on than words. It repeated itself so many times that when Gene got up in the middle of the night to let the dogs out I told him I was dreaming of a name, Henry David. Over morning coffee I asked him, does Henry David mean anything to you? No. And to me either. But we do have Google, so I typed in the name. Ah, yes, Henry David Thoreau, completely inaccessible to my waking brain, but running around haunting my dreams. Walden has been on my bookshelves for months. I bought a new copy however many months ago DDL mentioned it, but it's been buried behind other things. I read it once in high school, maybe even middle school, but haven't touched it since. I've just let it run around loose in the backyard of my mind without once calling it into the house. It must have been cold out there in the wind last night. Anyway, Walden is now unburied and top on my pile of books to read. I'm almost finished with William Gay's I Hate to See That Evening Sun Go Down, which I have thoroughly enjoyed, but it seems as though my subconscious has taken over and ordered my next tome. Thank goodness. I was getting tired of making all these decisions on my own.