“All things on earth point home in old October: sailors to sea, travelers to walls and fences, hunters to field and hollow and the long voice of the hounds, the lover to the love he has forsaken.”
– Thomas Wolfe
Today I ran quickly through the city, legs pumping in silent argument with the chill air that wanted me to shiver, wanted me to go home, wanted me to hunker down out of its wide territory. Step, step, step. My lungs worked briskly, pumping out puffs of white into the air. Blocks from home I stooped to gather up handfuls of leaves, these round and yellow, these oval and red, these jagged and scarlet. I smiled and ran, wondering if leaves were spilling from my pockets, wondering if others saw my secret harvest of jewel-toned impermanence.