I'm riding across town on a heavy iron bike--well, an iron sculpture of a bike (iron tires!)--it weighs more than I do. A hard, slow, tiring trip (sorry!)

I reach my goal--a luthier's shop. Three sisters run it--wiry little Latinas with short curly black hair. Cute, and they flirt with me. I'm surprised, as I reek of sweat from pedaling that iron joke around.

They show me the back room, where they make their signature instruments--big lobed wooden things with multiple struts (like flutes or bike-struts) between gourdlike resonators. Not just one lute-neck, many.

Do you blow into the tubes? But I see no holes. Pluck the strings? None to pluck. Maybe they're not done, and the holes or strings come last?

I'm carrying one such instrument--to trade in, to repair? A contrast to my heavy iron bike, but some parallels too--ungainly, surreal. I don't explicitly think "This is a dream", but I sense these twin Dr. Seuss constructions symbolize some strange message. But what? Baffling.

NEXT MORNING

My sister Miriel calls up to tell me her dream.

I was asked to look after a weird instrument with flutelike struts.

The owner told me "You don't blow it. You bow it, as if it's stringed." I was holding a bow, but I wouldn't even try--I could see it had no strings.

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