A Leaf Where the Fog Lifted

The grain, soaked by the night's rain, was soft as tender flesh. The moss on the handrail was slick, and the fog above thinned little by little until the path showed through. I heard the sound of morning coming. As I climbed the stairs, a single leaf came drifting down behind me. I turned at the sound and stopped at a bend in the path that had been empty. The footprints left where the fog withdrew, I realize, were all my own walking. So today, too, I rise from where I sit and walk toward that end. I, too, stopped a moment where that leaf came down. Higher up the trail where the fog had lifted, a single leaf still wet was catching the light, holding its dew. Standing at the window at dawn and recalling that light, it seems there may have been one more set of footsteps coming up from below the stairs. While the dew dried I stood just as I was, watching the wet leaf sway in the wind and settle again.