The flies had died. The ground was pretending
to be frosted over but not making that good a
job of it. We made little clouds as we walked.
The flies had died. We said it was autumn. A
reasonable suggestion. But a decision was made
and summer came back. There was heat on my
back when I sat at the table. And by midday the
flies rose from the dead. Buzzing at the window,
hopeful that something nearby would be rotting.
Perhaps it was.
