Arsenic hour.

I’ve locked myself out back, three screaming kids in the house, and I’m with the garden, the clouds, the chickens, the wind. The trees and open air usually take on my thoughts, make me still. Not so today.

My wine glass is empty. The glass is thin. I could break it, use it round the side of the coop where the leaves are thick and soft. No one would find me for hours.

Night falls with an accidental sunflower leaning over me. It asks why I am here when my babies are inside, crying for me.