stepping stones

We walk down the path where the gravel meets the wooden planks of the bridge, and then we divide. I head for the riverbank. My orange shoes carry me over the rocks until I am farther and farther away. Leaves rustle and the rush of the river provides percussion to the song in my head -- the one with lyrics about time, which roll over and over, eternally on repeat. It seems fitting that my heart wishes to sing about time, something that in this moment seems to be dying; in the early evening light, in the crisp air of fall, and in the leaves that hold their breath before they have to let go of the branches they've called home.

I hop from one rock to another. I step closer, pausing at the sight of leaves that have fallen to their watery grave. They lie stagnant in a small pool, separated from the larger part of the whole by several large rocks. Rest in peace, the rocks say as they shoulder-to-shoulder themselves, protecting the fallen ones from the rush of the river. Other leaves look down from branches above knowing that at any moment, they too will be plucked from their beds to join the throng, assembling in the pool below for Fall's Memorial. Bare branches bend in the breeze and create a sort of hollow hallowed sound; a recognition of their sacrifice for the Season and respect for the service carried on below.

The river courses on, passing trees with tired leaves and branches stripped of their color, naked except for those brave souls, the procrastinators who wait until the last minute before they fearlessly tally-ho into the water, not wanting to surrender to Time or to the Season. I turn to face the river. Wind dances across my cheeks. I curl my hair around my ears. I breathe in and let go, stepping back along the rocks, one orange step at a time, until I reach the bridge. The lyrics about time still run through my head as I step back up onto the dirt road.