As I dreamed beneath the waxing moon I rode a fine buckskin quarter horse in a meadow lush with penstemon. Geese hung from the sky honking out Rachmaninoff’s Rhapsody I memorized as a boy. The wind blew crisp at my back. As the buckskin flew I leaned to wrap my arms around his neck. It was then I could see he had the face of my father. A voice shot up strong from the roots of my dream: Horses always know the way home.