I do not travel with a camera of great expense. I do not travel with gadgets to improve the photographic experience. I travel for the experience.
Even if the sky were mediocre it would be more chivalrous than I.
Me, the gatherer of plastic goods…
the collector of false idols.
My well traveled gifts are malignant.
But the clumping and crinkling of an autumn tree requires the best of me.
There in the rolling, ripples of a Pemigewasset river, a narrative to be retrieved.
Here in a forlorn field of dreams…a mystery.
Set against a leaning, lecturing oak…only intrigue.
Time is far more masterful…when it stands still.
Through a collage of melancholy and isolation…
a fallen maple leaf.
In the history of red etched upon a maze of homeless yellows…
Parades a life easier to believe.
How poetic is a provincial leaf?
Such as, a gentle morning’s kiss.
A brisk breeze will toss sheltering soldiers…to the ground.
Many are red, the rest are mostly, brown.
One by one by one they tumble.
A quilted tapestry erupts all around.
Such is the passing of a friend…
New life beginning.
As another season artfully ends.