He dreamed of apples. In his dream, a canopy of apple trees hung over him, a shroud of sweet, red fruit, bobbing, ripe, heavy spheres dancing to some hidden melody. Above, the sky was very black, but his orchard was suffused with light, as if the fruit itself glowed with fecundity, the trees, still green-leaved, healthy as madonnas. He rose from where he lay and tried to reach one of the apples to eat, but the fruit was too far above him. He was very hungry. He wore his Lincoln costume, his tall hat and beard, and he found that when he tried to remove the beard it would not come off. The hat was stuck tight to his head. Beneath the hat, he felt something move against his scalp, wet and uncomfortable. He struggled to remove the hat from his head. Above him, the apples danced to their own wind. He could almost hear their song: a high, thin keening like a choir of angels. The thing beneath his hat became more insistent.
