The walk was wet, the ground spongey. The leaves on the trees looking desperate, red or gold. He saw himself in those leaves and how they hung on. He sat on a dry rock beneath the trees on the lakeshore looking for water fowl or eagles. That fishing lure caught in the arthritic-looking tree had been there for years. And he often wondered what it would feel like to come here after they moved out. He’d pine for these days and remember what he could but it would all be a wash, a passing scent.
He came back and hung his hat, topped his coffee, sank into his chair. Saturday. He imagined frames from future scenes before completing the one he was in. He could winterize the pressure washer or blow some leaves. Or drift around and do nothing. Hang and quiver like one of those leaves. Fall was a time of reckoning before the stillness of winter, the rebirth of spring. Fall was a time to make sense of things. To harvest what you could from the earth and then go there yourself. Crawl beneath a shrub and disappear.
He didn’t know what to do next. Something in the kitchen or the garage. He went to the window to look out back and see if the windmill had turned. Every day was like this.