Another day of work, another day to ride. I stop in the place I often do along the river bank where it’s just me, leaves and water, and memories of summer revelers lining up to swing from a frayed rope into the river.
Mornings brilliantly gold; half-lit mornings carpeted in silent snow; mornings hardly visible in the fog — these are why I can’t think of doing a job that would have me riding to and fro in a car, straight line, start and stop.
The chorus of leaves, red, green and gold, reflecting that morning’s bright sun into still water, seemed an exaggeration, autumn’s satirical self-deprecation.
I enjoyed the chance to stand a moment and watch leaves zig-zag or swirl their way down to the underworld before floating away like little canoes.