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I reach a park just out of the main part of town, and sat down on the grass, it was a cold November day and I looked at the dark blue colour of the river. It was entrancing and I couldn't take my eyes off the flowing river, so full of ease. I must have been sat on the grass for hours because when I looked back from the river it was dark, and the street lights were giving the street a strange orange glow.
I heard two raised voices coming from a flat not far from where I was sitting, and I stopped myself thinking of where I had heard raised voices before. I turned back round and looked at the river, which now seemed like thick oil travelling along a grove in the earth's crust. A brown leaf floated past and I suddenly found myself wondering how it got there, and I wanted to know about its story, its journey. I thought of a silhouette of a tree on the top a hill, with nothing around it, no disturbance. The tree had lost something, a part of who it was, even if it was a just a single leaf, but lots of trees loose leaves every year, it doesn't change their future or their past, it was just a part of life.