Water World

My dreams are filled with water. I live on a raging river that seems to be a water park, a very dangerous one. I seem to own the property, which is in Rhode Island. Water Buffalo cavort in the mud, leaving their prints when they sit on the chaise lounges that dot the slippery slope, when it's not flooded. Ducks, geese, osprey, cranes take wing, but not one flamingo.

I once wrote a story in which I gave birth to a frog. I suspect his progeny are jumping around this liquidy park.

Ironically, I cannot cry. My tear glands have gone dry and all I can do is crumple my face and quiver my lips while water flows from my nose. To my frustration, I carry 20 lbs. of water weight in my body. I'm an enigma of desert dryness and a pond of wetness across my belly and down my arms. 

It's true that I have a country house which has a narrow brook running through the back yard. But even at its height, the river of my dreams flows violently and spills its banks, Noah's charges desperately trying to survive a watery death.