The first roll of autumn

The first frame is always a careful one. I wound the film on, stood at the window and pressed the shutter slowly. Summer's light was still in the room, and the curtain bloomed white.

I went down to the river before the sun set. The wind had turned a little cool, and people on bicycles passed slowly. I watched the water glitter in the finder for a long time.

An old bicycle stood in front of the neighbourhood laundry. A single leaf had settled on the saddle. I took one frame before the owner came out and moved on.

The market alley was still quiet on a weekend morning. The man at the fruit stall, setting down a crate, said the first pears of the year had come in. The sweet smell followed me to the end of the alley.

It was an evening after the rain had stopped. The streetlights lay stretched long across the wet asphalt. I folded the umbrella and stood on that light for a while.

I was sitting by the café window when the light came slanting across the table. The coffee had already gone cold, and I waited for the meter needle to settle in the middle. Of this roll, it is the frame I hesitated over longest.

It is the alley I pass every morning on the way to work, but that day the tips of the ginkgo leaves had started to yellow. Autumn had really come, I thought, and stopped to raise the camera. Having written this far, twenty-nine frames of story still remain.