I love this time of year. No matter how desperate I am for each season to arrive, there is a part of me that could live in a Lothlorian autumn forever. I walk softly and close my eyes if just to hear the fleeting tumble of each leaf. There is a syncronicity to seeing a bronzed leaf fall, a presentness to the orchestration of it. A moment earlier, and it would still be precariously held by the roots. The last hug before inevitable goodbye, swift, fierce and ephemeral. A moment later and already it would be decaying, the chthonic body of a womb brought in upon itself. Such moments are not really moments, for they are contained within the movement itself of such transient metamorphosis. It is gliding time passing through, change that cannot be held. I have yet to be able to capture as a picture that descent from summer into autumn. Some days it's better not to try and to rather be in the stillness amidst precipitous release.