Fitting. The place. The time. Them together. Them being there; that moment. The cityscape growing. The soundscape grating.  The woodlot, trails scarring. Majestically standing in peace. Forest’s breathing life it owns. It’s grown up. It’s un-urbane. It’s an escape.

Their pace measured. Gravel grinding softly under feet. Their voices whisper just above the breeze. Their voices hint of wonder. Curiosity. It’s a love of what’s seen, what’s heard and not heard. It’s a love of what’s breathing into them. Breathing out, crispness billows. Hanging in the air. Brisk. Stopping. No words, looking above, all around, beyond, into each other’s eyes. It’s a love of the silence. That moment. Hush. Breezeless. Breathless. Completeness.

The bench. A memory to others who crossed paths in wonder. Weathered. Rough. It’s faded, etched with time, elements and countless moments shared leave scars. It’s welcoming. There’s warmth. A late day sun inviting them to sit. Their hands together. Weathered. Life’s moments. Marks. Them together. Fitting. So much said in those moments of silence. The glance. Fixed. Only a moment. Says all. The smiles. Punctuate. The moment.

Sunshine. Warm reflection. Tightly together, whispers of their today and hints of their tomorrow. Reeds bend. A breeze. Sun’s light shimmers. Mirrored water. Ducks breathe life. Waning light. Trails speak. Tightly together, weathered hands, their pace measured. Home calls. Fitting. Marked trails have them together. They escape together. The moments add up to them being there together. A future together. They have. Fitting.