Indian Summer

In a day the crocuses are in full bloom.
Opening pretty yellow eyes to the sky.
They are the size of toes.

In a couple days everything will bloom.

In an Indian Summer.

"Don't let the darkness eat you up."

A handwritten note, tacked to a tree.

I weave the horse down the slope, muddy, and rolling in grass, sweet with a new sunny warmth. The bones under my legs heave and muscles bend. I give the horse her head as she weaves through broom straw down to the paths edge, lined with tiny sycamores. They shed their skin in papery slips, and I tear one as I pass by and tuck it in my pocket to write notes on. I pass by two mated hawks sitting high in an oak in the forest later, their massive white feathered breasts unsettled in the graying light. Two other hawks fly by, chased by a flock of crying crows. Crying because they've hunted their mates out of the sky. The clop and sighs of the horse under me give way as she startles and takes off, gathering the massive body under me and leaving me to gather the reigns.

A glass jar of tulips sit on my counter.
Mason jars litter the rest of the space.
Winter seeps under the doors and chills the floors.
It will not release the reigns yet.