Autumn in the fog
Fog lifts off the slope and every aspen answers in orange and gold, the dark firs holding the line between.
Mesas stacked into blue haze and brush lit amber in the last minutes of the day. The Southwest, photographed slowly.
Fog lifts off the slope and every aspen answers in orange and gold, the dark firs holding the line between.
The last light burns along the horizon and the desert brush catches fire for a minute before the dark.
A Japanese maple with the sun behind it — every leaf a small lantern, coral where you expected red.
Two tulips at the end of their bloom, holding nothing back — the last thing a flower does is show you everything.
The sun finds the one notch between the sea stacks and pours through it — sky, surf, and wet rock all struck the same amber, a single gull crossing above to see it done.
October runs through the canyons like spilled paint — ridge after ridge of maple red and amber, while the pines stand in the creases and refuse the season.
A Japanese maple holds its reddest hour against a silver sky — every leaf a five-pointed star, the whole branch a constellation refusing to fade.
Autumn and winter meet on one slope — aspens holding their gold under the first dusting of snow, and the clouds drifting through to keep the peace.