"Leaves" Chapter 1
It was the first very cold day of December. The leaves changed late that year and it had been dry and cold for weeks, but today the sky was overcast and promised rain in the early evening. It was very cold.
On the asphalt walkway by the sad little river, leaves had been falling for a few days and were ground under foot, beaten and powdered into colorful powders that looked like cured tobaccos under the cherry trees.
The rain started very softly and gradually so that Paul didn't bother to use his umbrella at first. He stopped and leaned against the railing over the high stone walls where they'd improved the river banks and he watched the widgeon ducks whistling and chirping and holding their heads under the water, foraging.
The maidenhair trees were pungent but still pretty. The bright gold leaves shaped like folding fans fell onto the water with the breeze and floated along gently with the current in a smooth and uniform procession. The ducklings swam among the passing leaves and the water was clear late in the season.
He closed his eyes and drew the moist air in through his nostrils. This was a strange country and although it was winter, the smells were most definately fall. The river and the fragrant leaf powders and the smell of stale butter. What was that? It must be the decaying ginkgo seeds, he thought.
"Well... it's not the winter solstice yet," he said to himself under his breath and opened his eyes, looking up and down the river, checking if anyone had seen him talking to himself.
Continued...
He backed away from the railing and went on downstream. When he came to the bridge, he crossed and continued walking toward the village. He wanted to do some shopping for supper.
Below the bridge there was a back eddy where the bright red and yellow cherry leaves had collected in a pool. It was deep there and very pretty, he thought.
Have you ever been flipping through the pages of a magazine when your mind catches a word that went by much too quickly for you to have read it and yet, you read it, and you have to go back through the pages one by one, slowly, searching carefully for the page where you saw it? A frustrating itch, closer to stubbornness than to curiosity, will not let you move on until you find where you saw it.
This is exactly what happened to Paul as he walked past the pool of leaves. He was trying to plan out his evening meal, and yet he knew he had seen something and it was no use trying to drop it. He stopped and turned around and began walking back up to the bridge with his eyes steady on the pool of bright red leaves as if it were a wild animal that might attack at any moment.
On the asphalt walkway by the sad little river, leaves had been falling for a few days and were ground under foot, beaten and powdered into colorful powders that looked like cured tobaccos under the cherry trees.
The rain started very softly and gradually so that Paul didn't bother to use his umbrella at first. He stopped and leaned against the railing over the high stone walls where they'd improved the river banks and he watched the widgeon ducks whistling and chirping and holding their heads under the water, foraging.
The maidenhair trees were pungent but still pretty. The bright gold leaves shaped like folding fans fell onto the water with the breeze and floated along gently with the current in a smooth and uniform procession. The ducklings swam among the passing leaves and the water was clear late in the season.
He closed his eyes and drew the moist air in through his nostrils. This was a strange country and although it was winter, the smells were most definately fall. The river and the fragrant leaf powders and the smell of stale butter. What was that? It must be the decaying ginkgo seeds, he thought.
"Well... it's not the winter solstice yet," he said to himself under his breath and opened his eyes, looking up and down the river, checking if anyone had seen him talking to himself.
Continued...
He backed away from the railing and went on downstream. When he came to the bridge, he crossed and continued walking toward the village. He wanted to do some shopping for supper.
Below the bridge there was a back eddy where the bright red and yellow cherry leaves had collected in a pool. It was deep there and very pretty, he thought.
Have you ever been flipping through the pages of a magazine when your mind catches a word that went by much too quickly for you to have read it and yet, you read it, and you have to go back through the pages one by one, slowly, searching carefully for the page where you saw it? A frustrating itch, closer to stubbornness than to curiosity, will not let you move on until you find where you saw it.
This is exactly what happened to Paul as he walked past the pool of leaves. He was trying to plan out his evening meal, and yet he knew he had seen something and it was no use trying to drop it. He stopped and turned around and began walking back up to the bridge with his eyes steady on the pool of bright red leaves as if it were a wild animal that might attack at any moment.
© 2006 by PA Casey (ryecatcher)
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