On One October Morning

...with Ken, Nate, and Leonard

Oct 22, 2026

*One October Morning* © 2026 Lee Anne Morgan

It was the last cheddar-and-scallion scone.

I was eager to reach the bistro on a perfect October morning. A riot of golden leaves crunched underfoot as I walked the dirt path to Second Street, where fresh-baked treats and lattes awaited. The sky was autumn blue, and a single cotton-candy cloud hung motionless beneath the dome. A breeze carried a hint of winter’s breath.

Ah, of course. A line. Six people. I stepped next to a happy man who, in the cheeriest of terms, let me know he had his eye on the last cheddar-and-scallion scone. He was willing to listen to my reasons for wanting it, but I didn’t offer any. He was surprised. I explained that I had had many of those cheddar-and-scallion scones. “Please take it.” He laughed, then brought his friend into the discussion. We were already on a first-name basis before we ordered. Ken was keen on the scone. Nate was intrigued by the zucchini-walnut bread. (An excellent choice.)

Ken noticed my eyes were fixed on something that looked like a religious experience: a caramel-glazed apple cake. The caramel glaze gleamed. I had never seen it before. “What are you staring at amid these delicacies?” I replied, “That caramel-glazed apple cake. It was just brought out.”

It was Ken’s and Nate’s turn to order. Nate was firm about the zucchini-walnut bread. Then Ken ordered the caramel-glazed apple cake instead of the scone! Our lattes were ready. We sat and talked about this precious life. Nate’s heart work was in his garden. Ken wore joy. Our phones didn't buzz, ring, or beep. We were content to listen to one another. We did not speak of politics or the world’s current mania. We spoke of God. Each shared and listened. I was the least forthcoming. Ken asked gently, and I told him, “God and I had been on sabbatical.” Suddenly, Ken broke into a full-throated song: “I heard there was a secret chord that David played to please the Lord…” the opening lines of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.”

Ken knew every lyric, breath, and note. His voice rose, and we joined hands to form a small circle. More hands joined us: the wait staff, the barista, the owner, and customers. For a moment, people who did not know one another sang as one, hand in hand, as the circle widened.

Then people returned to their private lives. We three kept laughing. Eventually, Ken and Nate left for the day ahead—two old friends, doing whatever came next.

The bistro’s early-morning bustle slowed. I walked to the case and bought the cheddar-and-scallion scone.

Walking home, gold leaves drifted onto my path to their final rest. The single white cloud was gone. Now a flawless sky. The wind turned cold, hinting at a first frost that night. I said aloud, “It’s time to resume our old conversations, isn’t it? You and I have been dancing together for a very long time. Sometimes I turn away. Sometimes I come back. And still, you're a mystery. So damn confusing. So beautiful.

“Thank you for Ken and Nate. We sat, joined hands, and sang. You heard. I know.”

That mattered.