Indian's summer

Such a beautiful fire.

Skenandoa raked the singular pile of leaves into the shape of a bulging fresh grave of her third husband, tending and prodding stubborn red leaves with a stick as if trying to awaken a dead dog, the brilliant crackling leaves never bellowing smoke to irritate the eyes, but her black magpie eyes burning with the somber tears of another Autumn's passing.

It was a beautiful fire, smelling of burnt maple syrup on vagabond shoe leather. I did not talk to her but pointed to the yellow leaves afire, ripe for the pickin', towering above the white covered bridge still making for a lovely shade. Skenandoa pointed over my right shoulder, and following her gaze, I turned. A little deer standing upon orange leaves at the edge of the bridge watched us.
'Awanita,' Skenandoa whispered affectionately. I held my breath. She clapped her hands, startling me in its musket-fire echo, and standing side by side now, we watched the deer silently sprinting back across the wooden planks, retreating light-footed onto close cropped bluegrass.

Skenandoa playfully jabbed me in the ribs with the ash stick to see if the white man was dead.