An Autumn Morning Walk

The autumn morning air is unusually clear. As if last evening's wind had washed the sky, the view outside the window stands out sharply. I tied my shoelaces loosely and stepped out the door. The ginkgo leaves fallen along the way were damp. Each step made a crisp crunch of leaves underfoot. Beyond a wall, orange persimmons hung from their branches, and through the cool air drifted the savory smell of rice cooking. Someone's morning had begun. I walked, then sat on a bench and took in sunlight not yet cold. The light slipping between my fingers resembled yesterday's, but carried a different weight somewhere. A day beginning again seems to have grown as quiet as autumn is deep. Within the softly flowing time, I breathed in slowly. Standing at the edge of the morning air, I turn over what the season is saying to me. “There's no need to hurry.” Autumn seems to be saying that. Someone drinking coffee by a window, a caretaker tending the streetlamps, the voices of children heading to school. Everyone passes through the morning at their own pace. Back home, I brushed off my coat. A single leaf fell to the floor. I picked it up and set it on my desk, deciding to remember this quiet morning for a long time. Even within mornings that are the same every day, autumn shifts its colors a little and surprises me.