Scent of wet leaves sharp signpost leavings on every rock and tree from here to The Women’s Club turnaround expectation of another stale treat from the sidewalk bin at Café Muse sheer ecstasy of your kind on leash in numbers enough to banish any thought of Sir Francis Seymour Haden not to mention Adolphe Marie Timothée Beaufrere and that unabashed vulgarian Louis Legrand from the soulful clutter inside your head. Edgar Chahine and Paul Gavarni even Achille Deveria are absent from my own this autumn afternoon still swimming with the artless death of my mother grateful on this end of the leash to be led back home in such agreeable silence.