November is the hardest month, and it’s Sunday, the hardest day when one lives alone, but I am with you. We enter the wall of woods quietly, the way we might have entered the room of our sleeping baby, if we’d had one. You turn toward me, one finger pressed over closed lips. Silence is impossible as dry leaves crackle beneath our boots, but I synchronize my steps with yours to keep the racket down. We reach a ledge and sit on stones and watch the sun lower its bright body over the pond. The beaver, big toothed and oddly white, climbs onto a tree limb and begins to chew. I wish I knew how to love you. I wish I knew how to do it better. We pass the binoculars between us slowly, so the animal won’t scare, but it does, and I am cold. Let’s go, I whisper. You nod, and I follow you up the thick hillside, dodging branches, keeping my eye on that baggy green knapsack of yours. I am following, and wanting, as we come into a clearing, and there, mirrored in a new pond, is the early moon, so full and round I want to eat it, to share it with you.