The river was so dark, and meandering. Wet in a kind of primeval or cthonic way.

Our author was the leading character this time, although her hair was bobbed like a Hopi man's might have been traditionally, or one of those preppie women of the East. She was also taller, like the magical Celts of Patricia Kennealey's "Throne of Scone" sci-fi series.

She took me up to the top of the tower in an intricate elevator. I wore my polished black shoes, and they shined like the top of the Chrysler Building. Most of the people on their way up were sellers, retailers, wearing the coats that British salespeople do in some stores. I saw a friend walk by, his hair longer and blonder, his body his but also a compilation of another yogi.

From the top of the tower, we could see down to Shea Stadium, which was now surrounded by other urban buildings. It was "the last" Mets game, and Coach John Madden was scrambling for something... I can't quite recall it now.

Then she brought me to her house, on the banks of this oily dark river. It did not smell quite of water, although the dampness was there in feeling.

She showed me different places The People would stay, and we stepped over an archaic Oak Tree's root, burled, and pushing up out of the ground from a pressure unseen. On the other side was a sweet, soft area of grass. Just large enough for a good-sized tent. And that was where she suggested my husband and I camp for a while. It looked very soft. And smelled of sweetgrass and clover more than sage or pinon.

The river was so dark. It was almost black. Not oil. But like oil. Dubh. Syam.

I awoke, grateful for the visit from the Muse. Unsure of the message. Aware that a Messenger had travelled through my consciousness.

It made me want to find that copy of Gita Mehta's book, A River Sutra.