He makes it impossible to check my phone, pulls so much on the lead and at such a pace that the text message becomes a blurred string of half-letters. I give up quickly and instead pocket the device as in-case-of-emergency measure, should we get lost in the woods and become storybook characters.
He only watches the ground, and I only watch him, therefore –
I see the bed of autumn, a blanket of stripped garments shed by the trees that guard this place, as though we’re walking through their wardrobe. I sometimes expect a reprimand for treading through their quarters, but it doesn’t come. He and I are allowed.