Across the street there is a park about the size of a football field. The park sits next to a river and on windless days, you can hear the water tumbling over the rocks. I didn’t have much to do that Sunday, so I decided to venture down to the park for a walk.
It was an afternoon in the middle of November. The sun was out clear but a slight breeze made the air a little cool. The leaves in the trees were green and orange and yellow, and a handful of them would fall from the branches with each gust of wind.
I walked under the trees towards a path that ran alongside the river. I could hear the robins and sparrows in the trees, and would often catch a squirrel jumping from branch to branch.
Old leaves crunched under my feet as I walked along and looked at the river running gently. A recent rain had caused it to be a bit higher than normal. To my left in the grassy areas of the park, families were gathered for picnics. A father cooked on a grill while a mother smiled and watched her children play near them.
By this time I had come to the end of the path. It was a place where the river turned and disappeared behind the trees. But I wasn’t ready for my venture to end, so I found a spot nearby on the banks of the river. I sat silently in the scattered sunlight and watched the water until my afternoon walk there became an evening walk back.