An old man is sitting under the tree, outside the café.
When he first sat down, he considered watching the people going in and out, to and from the market.
But instead he is looking up into the branches.
Where a leaf is falling.
It is autumn.
More leaves fall, and he watches them spin and twist. Dancing in the air, tumbling earth-ways.
Some make him think of the last time he saw snowflakes.
How so long ago was that?
A young boy is standing under the same tree.
He is playing with his friend on the benches and tables that the café built for anyone that wanted to sit.
Or climb.
He stops in mid-climb, and looks at the man who is eating something bright orange. A persimmon.
The boy is young enough never to have seen one before.
It is only his second or third autumn.
But he notices that the man is not looking at the fruit, but looking up where he knows the sky resides.
He looks up too.
His friend stops behind him, and looks up as well.
They see the leaves.
They see the falling.
They have no memory of snow yet, this will be only their third winter and the previous two were mild.
Yet, they love those leaves.
And watch.
Three people watching.
One old enough to know how important and beautiful this moment is.
The two others, learning this.
They are motionless.
Silent statues at odds with the to-and-fro of market day.
Sentinels of the under-observed
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