Two Pairs Waiting for a Leaf
The morning light came down narrow between the leaves. Fallen ginkgo leaves rustled underfoot, and one person stopped in front of them. They raised a phone and framed the edge of a leaf, the grain where dew had gathered. The other stood without a word and shifted the water bottle to the other hand. The end of the leash swayed a little in the wind. A few steps forward, then stopping again, two or three times, until finally they sat on the nearest bench with their hands on their knees. The shoulders of the one photographing the leaf had dropped a little. Shoot, look, adjust the angle again, and through all of it the morning light kept shifting. After a long while the one with the phone lowered it and looked back. The one on the bench waved a hand and rose slowly, and the distance between them closed without a word. There was the quiet sound of the leash changing hands. The water bottle forgotten on the bench glinted in the morning sun. One of them stopped in front of it again, and the other had already picked it up and sat down first in that same spot.
The hand that picked up the water bottle is tapping the seat beside it. I think of the dog that sat on that same bench toward evening, waiting for the bus.
Seeing the autumn sun resting on the tapping fingertips, I waited a little for that light, then folded it away.
Before the streetlamps came on, the evening wind sent a handful of ginkgo leaves whirling. The person on the bench watched with hands clasped. As they brushed off their hands and rose to walk on, the wind was carrying leaves away again.
Two people's footsteps moved together toward where the wind was carrying the leaves. Afterward, another handful of ginkgo leaves must have fallen and piled up.