In Which We Do Not Join Our Heroes

 

Not today, for there were crows turning cartwheels against the high arching blue.  Not today, gulls were flying up and down on reconnaissance missions way up there.

There was a little yellow cottage slowly being consumed by old roses.

The sisters, orphans at their ages, slowly removed the ensorcellment of old vines and dead roses and old dried hips.  That was done.

Crows and robins made their usual comments.

The boy next door was engaged to cut the grass, and paid off.

There wasn’t any writing today.

There was a large box of old letters and cards to be checked for relevance and sorted into piles.  Keepers and tossers.  Judgments made.

An exhaustion, the ephemera of lives.

Odd confrontations with signs and portents.

Yet, the heart is very full.