this tuesday at the cottage

I cried while making the grilled cheese. But by the time we sat down for our meal, I was fine. This cabin, filled with smokey heat and cider we brought in big bottles, it is white and calming and temporary.
I'm trying to sleep this week. This morning though, the rain came down like soft hooves, and I had to get up and make a pot of tea. I sat at the table, after I had opened the curtains. The hillside was filling with fog. I crawled back up the stairs to you, lost in the sheets. Everything was white, and just the hint of warmth left from last nights fire.
We hiked in the afternoon, missing the turn so we had to double back across the valley. Up past the still standing ponies, then back down and over the river. The valley was a field of wild grasses, red and wet from all the night rain. And so their stalks were bent over, eat bush folded neatly in half. The thin tree branches covered in lichen and moss, and just dripping with water, the ivy is what makes these bare hills green.
The mud was long, slipping and slowly us down. Kissing gates and then the river turned, sending us up the hill along the stone walls, covered with lime. I got so hot marching up the rocks, we marched right past Meg's Folly and then that nice wide farm on the left.

Just to catch the sun on the hills across the valley, the field turned yellow under the glow. A few minutes later it passes, only to hit another bluff , and then we are right back where we started.
That red wine won't drink itself, we go inside.

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