Across the Fields (a fragment)

Looking down from a bridge, late summer. I'm not sure where I am exactly. It has the feel of the countryside just outside the last edges of town. The bridge curves over unseen water - and I imagine it is a canal, rather than a river. Slow moving echoes, silent reflections. The air is full of the dusty heat of August - the kind of heat you don't get any more. I'm looking at a field, and in the field that ringed by dark trees are two figures shimmering in the haze. Little more than silhouettes, but I can tell they are intensely talking, muted gestures, the ghost of words. They move quickly as if they have some destination in mind. The figures fill me with an odd sense of sadness, a sense of something being lost. I don't know why. I said before I'm not sure where I am, but it seems now that I am not sure when I am. This might feel like some memory, but it is not mine, and if it is a haunting, I'm not sure who is following or who is being followed.