Viewfinder AUTUMN

               The water reflects the sky, masking everything in a bright dullness.  The leaves lie sprawled: brown, orange, yellow and red.  They create a carpet of warmth and wetness, as the bright green of the grasses poke out where ever there are open spaces.  The veined dying masses are becoming the dirt for the next generation – for the next season.  Everything is tinged in the blue-ness of rain and covered in the scent of cool air.  The pitter patter of water sounds a symphony on the fallen leaves.  They only slosh and mush when stepped on; it is not yet the time to crunch and jump.

                The wooden pole is wet brown and green with little organisms.  Fungi?  Moss?  Bacteria?  They form patches of bright aqua green, like colours straight from paint tubes.  Their pattern is as if an artist casually splashed the paintbrush in random thoughtfulness.  Below the thriving little lives lie the dying masses of brown and yellow and red, tinged with the blue-gray of the wet sky.  They are magnificent in their last moments, shining.  Remember us, they seem to be saying.  Let us rest in peace.

 

               It is the season of blue wetness and of heavy humid air.  There is the smell of dirt and earthiness distinct to the dying colours of autumn after the rain.  But amidst the changing season, little and green, a few strands of grass peek from under a wet brown leaf.  They struggle, always in a battle, to survive and live just a bit longer.  So strong is the single will of a single blade of grass!  They do not give in to the trample of delusioned men, nor to the reckless blades that cut them:  they live with all the strength their little bodies can muster.  Just above these little warriors, the wooden pole is dank, covered in the bright aqua green of fungi.  They, too, fight and prevail.  Such is the nature of Nature; she is strong.