It’s quiet in the mud season.
Off season travelors dine around the six-sided fireplace
discussing this week’s school shooting
and celebrating anniversaries, 40th birhdays.
Their burgers are sometimes overcooked and their wine is overpriced, but
they are happy.
They are far enough away
from the heartbreak of Monday
and imaginary deadlines
and close enough to the pasture
to feel the steam of the horses’ breath
in their outstretched hands.
One compliments my dress
and I touch my belly instinctively.
Her smile reminds me of my mother’s.

A thunder storm rolled through the valley
not too long ago.
I couldn’t remember the last time I heard thunder.
I stood outside in the rain
and closed my eyes
and felt myself getting smaller
with each flash of lightening
as if I were going back in time,
until Drew told me to come inside.

I laughed as he pulled me through the door
and kissed him deeply on the mouth
until he was laughing too, and wet,
and we made love before I had to go to the restaurant
and I felt our baby move for the first time.
As I walked to my car through the mist,
nostalgia found its way into my pores.
All that dampness in the air.