I come here once more before the year dies to listen to the sluiced Grand and watch my breath steam into the night. It is my life turning visible, blurring the dead leaves rocking on the water. One small light throbs on the river and all things are slightly luminous. The great oak I squatted under as a boy has been shining a bronze mane in the strokes of October wind. It has buried its knuckles in this place and will never move. A strange bird raises a cry in its own corner of the night, a song more earnest than I have ever heard. A chill thrills up my wrist. I am happy, one heartbeat away from whatever other worlds there are.