(fall)

Writing just to not forget that we were married two weeks ago, under a tree in the courthouse lawn. That morning, we dragged a kayak out into the Tred Avon River, navigated out of the shallows, and wrote our vows on pieces of paper folded against our knees. The next evening, we again kayaked out into the river, now his ring hitting the oar, now watching the still glass of the river and the lighted windows at the shore. In the weeks since, the leaves have begun to turn and loosen. There are days when they are lifted by the wind and remain aloft, a few meters above the asphalt and the grass, paused here at the brink of the season.