Not every beautiful place needs to be reached in a hurry.
The old man had been overtaken by six birds, two dogs, and his own wife.
It was not yet nine in the morning.
He considered this an unnecessarily competitive start to the day.
His wife was perhaps twelve steps ahead, walking beneath the enormous trees with one of their white retrievers trotting beside her. The second dog had stayed with him, although mostly because it had discovered an interesting smell near a fallen leaf.
The old man stopped.
The dog stopped.
They looked at each other.
“Good,” he said. “Someone understands pacing.”
Above them, white birds crossed the pale sky.
Fff—fff—fff.
The old man watched them disappear toward the lake.
Show-offs.
The Long Way
They had been walking this path for years.
It curved beside the water, passed beneath tall trees, climbed slightly near the old stone wall, and eventually returned to the village.
Once, they could finish it quickly.
Very quickly, according to the old man.
His wife remembered this differently.
“You always stopped for coffee.”
“That was hydration.”
“You ordered cake.”
“Emergency carbohydrates.”
Some historical disagreements are unlikely to be resolved.
This morning, however, neither was in a hurry.
Autumn had arrived gently.
The air smelled of damp earth, dry leaves, and the faint mineral coolness of the lake. Under their shoes came the soft crrk—crrk of fallen leaves.
One dog ran ahead.
The other investigated a tree with such concentration that it appeared to be reading confidential correspondence.
The old woman waited.
Her husband caught up.
Then they continued.
The Bench
Halfway around the lake stood a wooden bench.
Years ago, they had rarely used it.
Benches, back then, belonged to other people.
Older people.
People who apparently had nowhere urgent to be.
Now the bench looked remarkably well designed.
They sat.
The dogs collapsed at their feet with the theatrical exhaustion of animals that had spent the morning doing exactly what they wanted.
For a while, nobody spoke.
A breeze moved through the trees.
Leaves brushed one another overhead.
Shhhhhhh.
Across the lake, someone rowed a small boat. Each stroke entered the water with a quiet dip… pull… dip… pull.
The old man rubbed one knee.
His wife noticed.
She did not ask.
Instead, she moved slightly closer.
Their shoulders touched.
Above them, another group of white birds passed.
He looked up.
“They’re still winning.”
She followed his gaze.
“Where are they going?”
He considered this.
“No idea.”
“Then how do you know they’re winning?”
This was irritatingly strong evidence.
Things Beside the Path
They stood again.
Near the old stone wall, the old man stopped.
“Mushrooms.”
His wife looked down.
Three small brown caps stood beneath the fallen leaves.
“Were those here last year?”
“Probably.”
A little farther on, she stopped beside two rocks.
A tiny blue flower had grown between them.
The old man bent slightly to inspect it.
His knee objected.
He straightened immediately.
“I saw it.”
“You barely looked.”
“I saw enough.”
They continued.
A low sound came from somewhere above them.
Eeeehhh…
The old man stopped again.
An enormous tree leaned slightly over the path, its branches shifting in the wind.
Eeeehhh…
He looked up.
“That tree complains more than I do.”
His wife kept walking.
“Not even close.”
He followed.
Near the reeds, the lake smelled greener, almost muddy. Small insects hovered above the shallows, flashing briefly whenever they crossed the light.
One retriever pushed its nose into the grass.
The other stood perfectly still, watching something invisible.
The old man looked back.
The bench had disappeared behind the curve.
The mushrooms were somewhere behind that.
The blue flower too.
He could not remember seeing any of them last autumn.
He adjusted his cap.
Then the dogs moved on, so he did too.
The Shortcut
Near the end of the path, his wife pointed toward a narrow trail.
“Shortcut?”
Her husband looked at it.
The shortcut would save perhaps eight minutes.
Once, that would have settled the matter.
Eight minutes was eight minutes.
He looked toward the narrow trail.
Then toward the longer path.
It curved beneath another row of trees where pale leaves were falling slowly through the air.
One dog had already chosen it.
The second followed.
This was suspicious.
The old man narrowed his eyes.
“Did you train them?”
“Of course not.”
“Are you sure?”
She began walking.
He followed.
The longer path it was.
A leaf landed on his cap.
His wife noticed and said nothing.
Another landed on his shoulder.
Still nothing.
A third caught briefly in the collar of his coat.
By the time they reached the lakeside again, he was carrying enough autumn to qualify as minor landscaping.
She finally laughed.
He looked down at himself.
“Very dignified.”
“Extremely.”
He brushed the leaf from his shoulder and shook the one from his collar.
Then he removed the leaf from his cap.
He looked at it.
Yellow at the edges.
A little brown near the stem.
He turned it once between his fingers.
Then, for reasons he could not explain, put it in his pocket.
Arrival
They reached home almost an hour later than they once would have.
Nothing terrible had happened.
No appointment had been missed.
Civilization remained operational.
The dogs rushed to their bowls.
Lap-lap-lap-lap.
The old woman put water on for tea.
Her husband stood at the kitchen table and emptied his pockets.
Keys.
A handkerchief.
Two dog treats.
And the leaf.
His wife picked it up.
“You brought this home?”
“It followed me.”
She examined it for a moment, then placed it beside the window.
Outside, the afternoon had turned pale gold.
The old man looked toward the sky.
The white birds were gone.
He looked at the leaf.
Click.
The kettle switched off.
He poured two cups.
His wife handed him his.
“Same path tomorrow?”
He took a sip.
“Depends.”
“On what?”
He glanced toward the window.
Then toward the two retrievers, already asleep on the kitchen floor.
“How much of a hurry the dogs are in.”
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