There is this bench. It has perhaps been sitting empty for some time now. It is perhaps a place where one might sit alone, might have been sitting alone until the sitting alone grew too stilling and a walking away (also alone) was required. Now there might be a returning to circle a place where one might be considering sitting again. But is still in the process of returning, still eyeing, still circling and considering. It is perhaps a place where one does not know who should sit down first, because it is a place where sitting first and last (or, worse, third) has become one rendition of the unpalatable. And the bench might need to be moved, might need not to face that long line of regular trees (brinked at losses as they are)--might need instead to front extravagant silences, swift quiet fogs, slivers of moon sublimely fragile. It might need to seem so close to the edge of something daringly, delicately lovely that the very ground might no longer seem to be beneath the feet of those who sit there. Instead: simply open darkness, not an abyss but a covering, covering not of fallen red leaves but of impossible stars and sanctified stone and unending space, spooling out and around and over like snareless silk, like the slippingest of song, like serenity, simplicity, the supplest of solemnities. Like some strange singing in a key the ear did not even know it could hear, silking there under and over and beyond the little raspings the leaves make as they fall through space to one another, one by one by starry one.