A poet is presented with an opportunity to study nature in solitude. A naturalist has offered her digs on an island, and he has accepted. The object is a rebirth of zestful positive American potential energy, a new Whitman, a new enlightened romantic frontier.

The poet produces intricate and amazing photos, four of them, for Natural Nostrums. Using the elaborate photographic equipment available, he has some wonderful miniature jungle scenes depicting the spectacle of scaled movement and mayhem. For the series, he charts ant trails and beetle paths through rotted fallen oak.

He is troubled. The use of stealth, trickery, subterfuge throughout nature bothers him. Also, Man who should walk tall on earth, he realizes, is the worst offender, for not only are other species subject to his whims and pleasure, but he among all life pollutes and poisons his own nest, destroys others of his species on petty transient causes.

The long epic resulting from his year on the island is too dismal for the editors even to read, much less publish.

It's a wonderful job. In fact, everyone wants it. It's almost a necessity. We accompany the ranger as she shows us how it's done.

We walk the mountain trail beside a swift stream. The ranger must find, form, or forge a channel to the valley below. This is what the job is. There is apparently a difference between the three modes. She steps off the trail and we follow her and - just look! - here is a robust current running to the valley. She has found one.

Next, she leads us onto a wetlands, and by just stepping she begins to swirl and move the wet into a body and then a current.

There is a stack of applications back at headquarters. I have cheated. I have picked up one and marked through the name and address and added my own particulars.

But then I hear an interview going on. From this application card, the interviewer has learned much about the interests, adequacies, and aptitudes of the applicant. I am amazed. I note there is a black dot on every card. This must be where the data is stored. I didn't realize that.

The application cards are to be mailed, not to a different geographic location, but to another era. They are sent five years ahead, which means the earliest interview for those aps stacked on the table, including the one I have forged, is 27 Aug 2009.

I am not overly concerned. It's like the humidity of my native land. It's the only game in town, so there's no point is crying about alternative which do not exist.

I don't know where I am in this one again.

A slow plodding stream of pilgrims steps out along a dusty road. They, or we, are bound from a small German village to a larger town.

One is filming, with his crew. He hopes to create a documentary which he will distribute himself. There is a market for films of an hour or so, but not much reward. The filming is for mere survival income, not fame. There is a shortage of everything, even filmstock, and he is never sure in this day and age (unknown) whether he will see interference, and from which direction.

One who is of our party carries a TV set. If he reaches the larger town (unnamed), he can sell it. If he encounters gendarmes, he will lose it, with his freedom, such as he has. There is no bill of sale for the item.

In my dream, we do not begin, nor do we end our journey. We only walk along a dust y trail.

I am following two individuals with a camera crew. They are French, and we are attempting to demonstrate that a nuclear facility should be in the hands of the state, not just two guys. Privatization has just gone too far, and we hope to demonstrate that with our documentary.

There is steam escaping. There it is. Irradiated steam...

...I am awakened by Niki J nudging me. My mouth has opened in my sleep, and wind is blowing out due to my CPAP device.