Boston Leaves

N42°22.33′ W71°6.12′

1810 ZULU

Raindrops fall discontentedly from a leaden, late Fall sky, staining the pavement a darker shade of urban bland. Traffic sounds are muted. The willow trees at the edge of the Public Garden’s pond drip water into the dirt below, while somewhere down Beacon Street the two-tone banshee wail of a city ambulance echoes through the man-made canyons before it fades away into the wet, cold air.

The clouds hang low over the city, shrouding the tops of the buildings in a gray mist that laps around the brick work and concrete, the rooftop antennas all but invisible save for their pulsing red lights that do nothing more than tint the air around them. The rain has come on suddenly—almost exactly at the same moment I’d wandered enough blocks from the hotel to make it impractical to return for my raincoat—but the clouds have been here since we arrived yesterday morning.

Daylight broke over Western Massachusetts just as we started our descent, revealing dense layers of clouds below us, stretching eastward towards the glow slowly forming at the horizon. For several minutes we succeeded in keeping the rising sun pinned below the curve of the earth, as our decreasing altitude canceled out its upward trajectory. Eventually though, as we leveled out at 2000 feet over an invisible Boston Harbor, physics won out and the far horizon turned to molten gold as the sun peaked over its edge.

The sun’s victory was short-lived however, as minutes later we descended into the thick layer of clouds. With our entire world reduced to a ball of dim gray surrounding the plane, all three of us had leaned forward against out shoulder restraints, looking for the trail of lights leading to the runway ahead while the plane’s computer unemotionally counted down our decreasing altitude. With just the hint of runway lights in sight, processing some untold number of factors every second, the plane flared out over the still-hidden pavement, wiggled its tail several times, and then thunked down, the wheels no doubt sending sprays of water into the already wet air behind our wings.

Now, thirty hours later, the clouds have thickened to the point of bursting. I stand just off the pathway running through the Public Gardens, shielding my camera from the deluge battering the dead leaves clinging to the branches overhead. These leaves are the reason I am out in the rain now. Fall foliage is something I grew up with but is lacking around my current home, so I take any opportunity to stand beneath the leaves and marvel at the colors—even if the weather looks questionable when I leave the hotel.

Despite the weather, I’m far from the only person out amongst the leaves today. A couples strolls along the path in front of me, each cocooned in a raincoat with the hood pulled low over their face yet holding hands—the water running over their entwined fingers. A resolute jogger splashes by, each footfall a dull thud against the wet pavement. Across the grass a woman with a giant rainbow-colored umbrella stalks a squirrel with her phone’s camera, the squirrel’s  gray fur the same color as the sky.     

The rain momentarily lessens, and I take the opportunity to change locations. Avoiding the worst of the puddles I follow the path around the pond, ducking underneath the drooping willows that hang nearly to the ground, their branches heavy with water. Two geese glide across the surface of the pond, their bodies still glistening with raindrops. I watch them for several seconds before they move out of sight, leaving behind a still surface reflecting a single larch tree on the far bank.

I frame up the tree in my camera’s viewfinder and wait. A man in a leather jacket paces back and forth in front of a bench, his ear bent to his shoulder, talking on the phone. Two children skip down the path behind him, followed by an older woman—maybe their grandmother—walking a dog. A man with an umbrella over his shoulder walks the other way and through the camera’s lens I see him smile at the dog.

There is a slight breeze blowing, but the surface of the pond stays calm. The rain has started up again—just a fine mist for now—and I can feel the water droplets clinging to the back of my neck. I stare hard through the camera, willing the scene I have in my mind to form, as the sounds around me diminish into the muffled heartbeat of the city. The children and dog are gone now, as is the man with the umbrella. The man in the leather jacket is standing still now in front of the bench with his phone still nestled against his ear. I refocus the shot but pause with my finger hovering over the shutter release, waiting.

Now water is seeping under my collar and dripping down my back. In the distance I can hear the splashing of car tires running over the wet pavement of Boylston Street. I’m about to give up on the shot when a flash of red enters the frame from the left. A woman under an umbrella, in a long red dress and matching bag materializes out of the hazy optics at the edge of the zoomed-in lens. Her short, brown coat, open at the front, matches her suede boots and she leans forward into the wet air, willing the raindrops out of her way as she stalks down the path. The man on the phone briefly raises his head as she walks by. For that one second the scene is complete. My finger moves.

Click.