Streaming

I have been seeing the ghosts of things past
Sitting in a seat facing backwards on the train to watch the memories and milemarkers streaming out behind us, in front of me. Visions living in the spaces behind mirrors.
Have I regrets?
I am walking along a road, it has rained and the maple leaves lie damp in the gutters. Their companions rustle and sigh in the wind's caress, waiting for release. Autumn lies thick on the land, and the blonde bleached grass and mottled browns of scrub extend over the valley. The only accents are the few blazes of color in the lone holdout trees. I glimpse a river running behind a house. The water is brown with slate grey reflections from the sky, and it looks cold. Its burbling is barely audible, muffled by trees and houses, but I want to stand and hear the full roar. I have come to a fork and choose the path closest to the river, hoping it will open up onto the bank, and I start to walk parallel, craning to see in between the houses. I am approximating, always anxious to see how soon the full flow will come into sight. The farther I go along the road, the more I feel the cold and heavy feeling of committing to a path. Should I have struck across the high grass at the first sight of water, lifting my arms and scooting sideways for a closer look? The river isn't going to meet up with the road. It must curve back around. And now I am taking myself farther and farther away from the clarity I so desperately wanted. Cut off from the source. Car fumes settle around me and refuse to dissipate into the autumn wind. Everywhere boxes and parallel lines, but all I want is to cut the corners. Find the hidden torrent and be swept away.