October 25th, 2014

It is the kind of gray that gnaws at your bones by the time I get home from hiking. The hike, however, was beautiful. There was a golden forest, a bamboo field, many still moments in which I peered through trees looking for a mythical creature. There was even a spear, perfectly formed, which still sits in the back of my car. I watched a hawk circle so far above me that sometimes I was no longer sure it existed. The air was warm and the rock we lay against was cool, so he gingerly, with the sureness of a child, offered me his arms for warmth. It felt not unlike hugging a straw man, but I didn't mind very much as there was nothing to it anyway. When we pulled up to the house the three of them watched and did not wave hello and the gray came then. We sat in a jarring silence, occasionally making small talk like pebbles breaking water until the mushroom lady walked by. I have never she said seen such a crop mushrooms. Strange year. The mushrooms, they are all out of order and schedule because the weather has been so wild. She doesn't say a word directly to me unless I ask questions. She doesn't say anything about the stories she has heard that were weaved from the thin bits of evidence I've left lying around. She makes no comment about the men. The porch splinters. There are ever so many canaries in the coal mine.