Charcoal Wool

Indian summer.
Cool nights. Spectacularly bright and color-filled days.

The sweet corn has been harvested.
The barns are prepping themselves for what's to come.
The animals appear restless. What do they know that we do not?

In some parts - there's a storm brewing.
Here - it's quiet. The mountains sit silent. 

Some days I have to stop myself....to listen.
Is my heart beating? 
Am I really hear?
Is that me breathing?

A face appears. A surprising and unusually beautiful one. 
Unexpected. Out of nowhere.
Again - I find myself imagining....projecting....making stories up in my head.

We have a little conversation - me and she - together.

She tells me  - she's come as my teacher.
She offers me up her thick coat of charcoal wool. A gift - she says - to all.
She wants me to spin it...to dye it...to knit it into sweaters and socks and warm winter mittens.
She tells me to take our little bit of handiwork into the village.
To give to those who need.
To share.

She's come as a reminder.
Of course.
I see.
I hear.