We're driving under the shadows of giants in the sky, their crowns coloring the road ahead and dancing across the cloth seats holding us side by side. Protected by the slivers of blue and white overhead and undergrowth to our left and right, we pass some people on bikes and others on foot. The air is undercut with something telling, something familiar and our collective movement is heading toward it. To feel the season, to let it embrace us. An abundance of red and orange brushstrokes against a boundless canvas. A moment so fleeting it must be intentionally taken in. We've left the pocket of Williamsburg we know, pointing out every house with matching door and window trim and creating new worlds inside, each more spectacular than the last. Carved pumpkins on doorsteps and glowing candles in windows. The road narrows, pavement becomes gravel, and sparrows gather on the telephone lines. We travel without direction before reaching water that sparkles and extends an invitation. You give me your hand and we follow the vacant soles of strangers. Down at the shoreline, we meet our outlined reflections, digging our heels into the earth and looking out at the stillness. You tell me about the pine trees you want to live on your skin and I sketch the one in my backyard. The leaves of the magnolia you grew up with will be raked soon. A monarch butterfly lands on a hollow log dug into the sand. Its wings flutter in time with the water that brushes over the pebbles collected at the shoreline, an endless repetition that calls us back to the place we both know. And I could be back home if I closed my eyes and let the rays of sunlight warm my cheeks and listened to the breeze make the tall grass dance and the current sing. To let the moment exist as it always will.