The pool in the woods

Once upon a time, there was a weekend.

A Frenchman and a South African decided to drive into it. So they hired a car. Once they had wiped the car down with Chlorox wet wipes, they pointed north, toward the country with the trees.

They were going to a place they remembered, where they could sit and listen to water, and see nothing but leaves falling.

To get there they walked on a path that crunched, where clusters of honey mushrooms grew on roots.

 And where a man who passed them told them they had just missed an otter. 

It was as it had ever been.

They waited and watched, but no otter.

Then he went downstream, and she circled trees and explored leaves. 

They ate lunch on the big rock. Hot soup from a Thermos. Sandwiches with garden leaves and cheese, and Sunday salmon on a Brooklyn bagel.

                                                        And then they drove home.

.

                                                    Into the thickening arteries of the city.