The lonely mist has drifted in.
Brown is so beautiful, scattered and mixed in flakes of brown, yellow, red.
You sip your Hong Kong tea, grumbling about the milk in it, and chew your luncheon meat in soup. You comment on its warmth against your cough, as you wish, so wistfully, for a camera. Just a walk in the woods, and you think, because this park has always been here, that you had seen it all.
The raindrops splash against your glasses, fogging in the frames, as autumn rain hums against the green of your clothing. You're drenched, you're cold, but your tea and soup are warm, and your voice feels much clearer.
The path forks, but you know this place too well, even on a cold and steel-gray afternoon, even when it's raining and empty. It's a lovely and lonely place.
And out on the distance, in the rippled ruffled lake water, two swans sweep in white plumage, when you circle the benches and step on rain-lacquered foliage, the mat crunching wetly, and there is a gasp of amazement from you when the swans come together in a way so symmetrical, so elegant, that you wish again, even more fervently, for a camera.
You're glad you came today. It's a peaceful break.
You finish your Hong Kong tea, throw it in the nearest bin, and your shoes tap as you curve the lakeside, taking the view with your eyes. You chew the last of your meat, as you watch the swans drift of in an elegant glide and a leaf of scarlet touches the misty silver surface.
You should come here more often.