I walk under the citrine ceiling, weaving between the stilt legged dancers. I have stumbled upon the carnival primeval. The revelers have shed their debonair artifices, their stately demeanors for extravagant excess. Their normally calm waltz has become a raucous masquerade. I add my crunching footfalls to the rhythmic rasping of leaves; my own flashes to those of the flickering sun. This shy orb sets the jewel like costumes to radiating from within; glowing with deciduous decadence. These stilt walkers perform with the fervor of the finite, the churning intensity of the last hurrah. They parade on; their vertiginous forms heedless of their ever dropping foliage, the organic and animate confetti of this primal festival. The pageantry continues until costumes lay crumpled at their feet and starkly naked they await the next cyclical celebration.
I wrote this a couple of years ago after walking around in the sunny fall woods taking photographs. I actually did a six picture mixed media series off of it, most of which has sold now. But I found it on my computer and since these are the first few cool days of the incoming season I thought I would share.