The weeping willow's branches are forming a protective canopy, keeping them safe from the rain, the cold and their murderous pursuers.

"You think they've gone?" Natasha whispers, peering through the foliage.

Clint does indeed think so, but the way the leaves allow spots of light to dance across Natasha's autumn-coloured hair feeds a lovelorn hunger in him that will never be fully sated, so he signs 'five more minutes'.