One Night In Japan

The old wooden footbridge is wet with the mist, and the oil lamps that hang on the railings glow soft and yellow in the fog. The wind is still, the moon set long ago. The farther shore is invisible behind its blanket of clouds.

And your hand in mine is damp and cold as we step from the path onto the bridge, from the sand onto the wood, and the sound of your boot heels dissolves into the hiss of the river.

I slip your hand into my pocket, and we're walking so slowly the sun will probably rise before we reach the other side.