mistaken for ghosts

We both realized it was Indian Summer in Minnesota that day, though I was the first to actually say it. I can't explain my initial reluctance other than for fear of spoiling the moment, as though if by my silence it might somehow last forever.

It was right on time, in fact. That time of year we forget what the chill and rain portends, briefly allowing our minds to idle and our bodies to luxuriate in unexpected warmth.

"Well, I don't see any forecast for snow in the next week. If we get through November, that leaves December, January, February and March!"

She stated each month with increasing emphasis, the last with a determined authority. I knew then I had broken the spell.

bare birch
hidden amidst the pine
mistaken for ghosts