WIP

As was ubiquitous at that time of year, a leaf snapped free of its arboreal umbilical, was swept up cinematically by the bluster of autumn and finally, as if framed by Hitchcock, came to rest atop the paw of an aged cairn terrier. The camera might have panned upward to reveal a leash wrapped around the fist of man out for a leisurely stroll with his pet. And, my God, they were surrounded by nothing but fallen leaves; all kinds Red Maple, Oak, Black Walnut, Sycamore. Harold Plante was a lover of classic film. Yet, he rarely was reminded of the master of suspense while out with Murray but the mood of the day inspired him. On that day, a leaf was a bird, Murray was Tippi Hedren, and he apparently was Rod Taylor.

It was All-Saints day, he thought, a forgotten holy day, really, where the Catholics honor any and all who’ve been beatified. The night before, he’d spoken with his son, Harry, to wish him a happy birthday. Harry had been attending the State University up in Cortland New York. It was only a couple of hours north, but it was the first time his son had been away on his own for more than a month. He and Ronnie could now safely call themselves empty nesters.