It rested uneasily amongst fallen leaves of crisp autumn gold, and I wondered why it was there, this little piece of toil and sweat and probably love.

Part of me wanted to stop and retrieve it, to cradle its limp frailty and read those words one last time. Part of me.

If it’s there tomorrow maybe I will. Maybe I will pick it up, lay it flat, dry it out and uncover its story, not just the tale its words helped to form, or the book from which it was rudely torn, but why it was there, why that page and no other?

Or maybe I won’t, I mean, a dog might have peed on it.