This is not an actual dream but a series of images that came to mind as I was reading poems other people had written about their dreams.
At the beginning of the dream
I stand at the end of the pier.
A light north breeze blows steady
so the leaves on the cottonwoods
flap like church fans and whisper
among themselves. The water
ripples dark and translucent, a sheet
of shifting obsidian flakes. No boats
or cottages or people or other piers
are there; I am alone with the lake.
In the middle of the dream I drift
above the deepest part in that green
rowboat with the wooden oars,
the lake so clear I see the bottom
criss-crossed by large torpedo
shapes some hundred feet below.
Smaller fish glide or dart through
the intervening space, every shade
of green with flashes of gold
and silver, turquoise and emerald.
In the end of the dream I float
just below the surface and watch
the slow undulation of seaweed
in distant shallows. Minnows
nibble at the hairs on my arms
and legs, tickling. My face
breaks the surface and I take
deep, slow breaths before I sink
a few feet and jack-knife
toward the bottom.