The Whale

Last night, I dreamed of a sea house built of drift wood and dark logs. It was morning or dusk, I’m not sure which – the certain time of day where time could be setting or rising in fog. The source somewhere above me in the layers.
There was no floor to my house, just wet sand. There were no doors, no furniture, just air and pictures on the walls, but of what I’m not sure.
A giant gray whale burrowed itself under the sand and rose in the entry way, suddenly thrashing his immense body around the living room for lack of space, direction, foresight. It wasn’t the absence of water that upset him, it was the walls. And I didn’t blame him. I let him destroy the stairs, the door frames, the roof – his body salty white, squeezed and struggled to get through spaces that weren’t meant to hold him. I led him to the side door, which opened into the sand and water and watched his head wrench the structure around him until he was able to get free. But instead of returning to the ocean, he stayed with me, running back and forth on the sand, watching the water.