I know where the stone walkway lies hidden beneath fall's cover. The smell of autumn clings to my jacket, still. Erin picks up leaves and chases Lanie. Lanie laughs in protest through the crunch, crunch. Brick, slate, stone. The fragrance of a woodsy retreat. Garden gnome, little bunny, iron gate. Father holds hands as they balance on a fallen tree. Trails, hideaways, arboreal awnings. I look up, up at the tallest treetops, late morning light breaking through. And I don't mind the air is cold.