The Psychic   That first time I was wary, careful not to prompt her, not to give myself away. “Just tell me what you see,” I said, and caught the scent of something strange, something that may have mattered somewhere else. She sat in stillness for a while, rocking gently. Then she nodded and softly said, “Okay,” and filled the room with light outside of time. “I see you on a raft,” she said. “And you have plants with roots that reach into the water, but the current’s too strong, too fast, and they can’t find the soil . . .” She shook her head. “Is this what you wanted, what you want?”                                                  What could I tell her now? About the raft, the roots? The more I tried to grab the light, the more I fell through space. I’d dreamed all this the night before.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont January 2020