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I did not turn around. The boat already knew my weight. Red paper under my feet, cream cloth on my back, the umbrella holding a little night in the middle of all that gold. The town is folded. The mountains too. Even the leaves came pre-creased as if autumn had practiced before I arrived. Lanterns keep the water honest. A bridge waits like a held breath. I am only passing through the color that found me. If you call from the bank, I may not hear you. The leaves are loud in that quiet way paper has when it remembers being a tree. I am not lost. I am the girl the canal agreed to carry for one long red hour.
