Friday, November 13, 2009
Indian Summer came late. In shorts and a camisole, I contemplated the bare trees standing like skeletons on top of the ridge, silently begging for snow. Too many days of rain knocked down the last of their leaves, then swelled the river into thinking spring had returned. Flash floods covered paddocks and fields. Streams invaded parks and basements. Deer, chased from the forest by the encroaching waters, littered the highway in a bloody mess. An unseen heron left his gliding shadow on the swollen stream. What was this strange season residing between the full moon and Friday the 13th? And what did it mean?