I pause and through rain glazed windows search for a backward image unknown but hauntingly familiar on the now vacant corner which has a piece of ourselves and feel the final not-caring but caring pain.

I look into nothing and hear dead voices whispering among the clinging leaves left somehow in the wind of our passing.

Voices harshly soft echo the fragment inside others, wonder-shared for seeming ages but merely frozen by the photographer's flash for a posterity dismissed without thought.

The glance between us passing reveals nothing, only all that is lost and unknowing; but the footprints of our running, unmistakably clear in the soft earth, freeze hard, ice roofed and empty.

The widening past heaves through the now voiceless wind and dead leaves; the running falters, stops, and nothing is but the wind and the vacant corner.