After The Feast

This was the quiet time.

The morning after the morning after Christmas Day. A world twilit and icecrackled, dawnstars slowly fading.

She found him leaning against a gate down the road, facing east.

“I’ve always wondered what you do out here,” she said, shoving her hands deep into coat pockets.

He passed her a hip flask with the last few dregs of sherry.

“Just making sure,” he said.

“Making sure?”

“That it worked.”

The first rays crept across the field and up the gate, warming flesh and bone.

“So?”

“Yep.” Around them, the frost shone like sunrise. “Spring’s coming back.”