From orange to red to crimson to yellow to colors only an artist could name--the backroads are magnificent. Even the greens of the conifers seem to be perfectly placed on the canvas of autumn's art show. Admission is free. Straggling is encouraged. The only thing in a hurry was the huge buck slipping from the meadow toward the stand of white birch. The steepness of the hill seemed irrelevant to his gracefulness. Flocks of sheep feeding in the midst of the hay mounds cast waves of serenity toward the old chubby man in the little red wagon. Yes, I can feel it. To the horses in some of the fields, I am invisible--at least, not worth looking up from the feast of grass. The fields have been mostly harvested. The beans leave a field as smooth as a walkway. The corn leaves a field of stubble and ruin. Some fields have already been re-planted with something--they have been brushed with a blanket of green. As I always confess this time of year, I love after-harvest time. The contour of the fields has returned. The horizon has returned. The hidden houses and barns have been "chased" out of hiding by the green and red monsters who devoured their hiding places. I get angry at the cars that suddenly appear in my rear view mirror. I will not be rushed. Think me strange if you wish as I pull over and let you pass. I know. Autumn, too, will pass. But I will immerse myself in the beauty of another October painting created by the Master's hand--beauty given to me to enjoy. I pray you haven't been too busy to take the time to meander through the "art gallery."
Yes, pray.
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