Early this morning, far across the stubby fields, a saw a lone horseman on the path leading across one of the wooden bridges. The horse, a palamino, was traveling at an easy canter, the reins loose in the rider's hands. Something about the pair looked familiar. Perhaps it was the horse's white mane, and the rider's slim, relaxed body in the saddle. As we approached the wooden bridge, each from a different direction, I could see that the rider wore jeans and was bareheaded, his glistening black hair stirred by the breeze. I recognized him as the man with the serape I had met a few weeks ago. He looked younger than the first time I had seen him, in his early twenties, perhaps. He smiled in recognition and said "buenos dias". I returned the greeting. That night I dreamt about him. Something vague yet disturbing. In the dream he had addressed me by my name, even though it was the first time I had met him. In the morning when I awoke I remembered the dream, and wondered what it meant.