Autumn light is bewitching. It consoles us as it gently escorts languorous days out and heralds in the approaching frost. We trade barefoot nonchalance for the industry of harvest and woodstacking and are rewarded with a season that harbors ethereal evidence of true awe and magic in the way its light slants and settles. I feel angelic in its presence, just as one may feel uplifted in the company of a great orator. I often sit at attention this time of year, both when the sun breaks free of the horizon and then again when it surrenders back down into it. More glorious colors are never to be found. In the evening especially, the golden timbre cajoles me outside with its heavenly glow, inviting me to not only revel, but to document. With rapture, I follow its path doused in childlike wonder, snapping and angling, knowing I can only capture a sliver of its brilliance. As if innumerable stagehands invisibly shift the luminous set moment by moment, the sky and the landscape dance in each other’s revelry. Only after orange begets violet is the spell broken.
It is then I go inside, both joyful and sad, and prepare dinner.