waxwings

by underswansea

RCE_2819

The lake’s iced over. It may last or not. There is no sure thing in November. One of these mornings winter will come – but colder. Probably December.

The rifles were given over for knives. It’s a case of going downhill or needing less to defend yourself.

Back then it was red hair and brown eyes that needed defending. She’d been better off not falling in love with a man turning over his rifle.

She never complained. A woman hangs on and defends once she decides.

That’s her burden.

Bridges burned. Every now and again a bear comes out of the woods and scares the shit out of you, and you reach down for the knife. Ain’t no use for a rifle anyway.

Maybe the bears can tell by the hunched shoulders. Perhaps it’s mercy. Perhaps they see a long fight and back off.

It’s a good few days left in November. Plenty of weather yet. Who knows what will come up next

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