Meadow

We walked toward the river into late September light, seeking space between the recent diagnosis and us; a few yards past the bridge, a meadow of pink hairgrass glowed and meshed with white yarrow and blue thistle, woven together like finely-wrought fans, and with the grace of almost-autumn peaks of goldenrod flickered and leaned into the wooden fence, inviting goldfinches to harvest their tiny seeds. We stood briefly enchanted, bonded to that perfect place, backlit by an overlay of ruby red on navy blue, our breath slowing.