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Autumn and Entropy - The Tapestry II
Autumn Part II
The sun had blessed the far-flung rural domains of the county with one last glimpse at Autumnal magnificence. One last call for the children of the sun to take heed and venture forth one last time into that glowing brilliance afore its inevitable fade into the long gray. Sumptuous were the sun-soaked kisses and rejuvenating were the warm embraces of that pleasant day. Things to cherish and remember during the dim depths of January when such things are but a distant memory and tales to recount when the winds blow foul from the white wastes of February. On that October day, the indomitable sun with its potent rays surged forth in glorious battle. From on high, the dazzling Vanguard of a mighty golden horde descended to protect its children against the perils of November.
That benevolent star bestowed upon all in attendance, the last kind gesture of an ailing father whose strength was waning and whose light was diminishing, to give the last of its gifts upon its despairing wards. I imagined a shining chalice filled with golden light spilling forth from the heavens, a torrent of aqueous hues to wash the land in stunning fire. Magnificent and rare color stirred countless fancies within me that day. It stirred a great many things extrinsic as well, as rapturous October shook the sleeping dust from a complacent populace and awoke an indomitable horde that fine October day. A slumbering behemoth had slept upon towering shoals in distant and foreign lands. Of late, concerning rumors had reached my ear, telling of a tremendous rousing in the south, of a faceless Titan with an unwavering gaze set upon the county. My county. For the leafers had awoken that day, called to descend upon the land by the very color and light of the fall season. The cohorts had arisen with cabals and strategem to make their pilgrimage to the quiet countryside, not unlike a swarm of locusts to the harvests.
For a brief spell each year countless invaders overwhelmed the quiet byways of the countryside with pearlescent crossover SUVs every shade of white and gray one could imagine. Throngs upon throngs of gawkers and lookers and watchers and clickers descended from afar, intent on permeating the forests and choking the once quiet trails with infectious dendrology. Small bands of leafers redirected traffic in ad hoc fashion, while others sought to parlay with bewildered locals about ideal locations and secret vistas. Though most had come from places foreign and far removed from the dirt roads, the country air, and the slower pace of rural utopias, there were a few familiar faces hidden amongst the hosts. The leafers materialized, as they always had, at the behest of October. Called upon to gather in numbers at such places to explore the transitory Shangri-La of crimson and gold, of rolling hills and hidden groves; to chronicle a land of quiet and color.
The rapport of canons echoed across the field and throughout the bough as the annual battle of the photographers commenced; the front lines were golden forests and glowing dales. They landed upon quiet beach heads whose slopes of orange and yellow emerged from cool dark waters, all the while the Canons fired.They advanced across fallow fields where stood flaming Oaks, the solitary remnants of long-forgotten forests. Toward hilltops dotted with fence posts overgrown and adorned with barbed wire the color of aged oxidation. The battle raged on that day, across the autumn front while the Canons fired and echoed in that charming rustic land.
The luminous countryside was awake and bustling that day with a pandemonium not seen in quite some time, albeit a positively determined commotion. The countryside and all of its varied mysteries is a realm I haunt in the fair weather and the foul, and to see those old roads alive and pulsing with purpose was cause for much joy. It was down at the far end of one of those aforementioned roads, beyond the well-traveled routes, beyond the well-marked paths where I turned up that splendid fall afternoon. Out of sight, I slipped behind the orange-tinged veil of Autumn, down the golden paths of birch and poplar whose boughs beckoned in shadow and light. Those hidden ways took me far from the battlegrounds and the usurpers and into secret forgotten places. Sheltered sanctuaries that had long since passed from memory by even the wisest folk. Out there, down at the far end of that forgotten road, at the trailhead of autumn I ran into that old friend. Serendipity played a leading role in this act, for out here in the abandoned panoramas where no willful traveler passes did I meet him. Once more out under a big blue sky and a brilliant October sun we meet. To engage out here beyond the frenetic grasp of leafers and harried battles, alone and exposed to the beauty of Autumn, is serendipitous indeed.
© ccouling
The sun had blessed the far-flung rural domains of the county with one last glimpse at Autumnal magnificence. One last call for the children of the sun to take heed and venture forth one last time into that glowing brilliance afore its inevitable fade into the long gray. Sumptuous were the sun-soaked kisses and rejuvenating were the warm embraces of that pleasant day. Things to cherish and remember during the dim depths of January when such things are but a distant memory and tales to recount when the winds blow foul from the white wastes of February. On that October day, the indomitable sun with its potent rays surged forth in glorious battle. From on high, the dazzling Vanguard of a mighty golden horde descended to protect its children against the perils of November.
That benevolent star bestowed upon all in attendance, the last kind gesture of an ailing father whose strength was waning and whose light was diminishing, to give the last of its gifts upon its despairing wards. I imagined a shining chalice filled with golden light spilling forth from the heavens, a torrent of aqueous hues to wash the land in stunning fire. Magnificent and rare color stirred countless fancies within me that day. It stirred a great many things extrinsic as well, as rapturous October shook the sleeping dust from a complacent populace and awoke an indomitable horde that fine October day. A slumbering behemoth had slept upon towering shoals in distant and foreign lands. Of late, concerning rumors had reached my ear, telling of a tremendous rousing in the south, of a faceless Titan with an unwavering gaze set upon the county. My county. For the leafers had awoken that day, called to descend upon the land by the very color and light of the fall season. The cohorts had arisen with cabals and strategem to make their pilgrimage to the quiet countryside, not unlike a swarm of locusts to the harvests.
For a brief spell each year countless invaders overwhelmed the quiet byways of the countryside with pearlescent crossover SUVs every shade of white and gray one could imagine. Throngs upon throngs of gawkers and lookers and watchers and clickers descended from afar, intent on permeating the forests and choking the once quiet trails with infectious dendrology. Small bands of leafers redirected traffic in ad hoc fashion, while others sought to parlay with bewildered locals about ideal locations and secret vistas. Though most had come from places foreign and far removed from the dirt roads, the country air, and the slower pace of rural utopias, there were a few familiar faces hidden amongst the hosts. The leafers materialized, as they always had, at the behest of October. Called upon to gather in numbers at such places to explore the transitory Shangri-La of crimson and gold, of rolling hills and hidden groves; to chronicle a land of quiet and color.
The rapport of canons echoed across the field and throughout the bough as the annual battle of the photographers commenced; the front lines were golden forests and glowing dales. They landed upon quiet beach heads whose slopes of orange and yellow emerged from cool dark waters, all the while the Canons fired.They advanced across fallow fields where stood flaming Oaks, the solitary remnants of long-forgotten forests. Toward hilltops dotted with fence posts overgrown and adorned with barbed wire the color of aged oxidation. The battle raged on that day, across the autumn front while the Canons fired and echoed in that charming rustic land.
The luminous countryside was awake and bustling that day with a pandemonium not seen in quite some time, albeit a positively determined commotion. The countryside and all of its varied mysteries is a realm I haunt in the fair weather and the foul, and to see those old roads alive and pulsing with purpose was cause for much joy. It was down at the far end of one of those aforementioned roads, beyond the well-traveled routes, beyond the well-marked paths where I turned up that splendid fall afternoon. Out of sight, I slipped behind the orange-tinged veil of Autumn, down the golden paths of birch and poplar whose boughs beckoned in shadow and light. Those hidden ways took me far from the battlegrounds and the usurpers and into secret forgotten places. Sheltered sanctuaries that had long since passed from memory by even the wisest folk. Out there, down at the far end of that forgotten road, at the trailhead of autumn I ran into that old friend. Serendipity played a leading role in this act, for out here in the abandoned panoramas where no willful traveler passes did I meet him. Once more out under a big blue sky and a brilliant October sun we meet. To engage out here beyond the frenetic grasp of leafers and harried battles, alone and exposed to the beauty of Autumn, is serendipitous indeed.
© ccouling
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