A spattering of isolated fires, fanned by the cold autumn winds; crawling across the hillside until the illuminating splendor of the full blaze finds its glorious roar.
The short-lived inferno will fade; leaving behind the charred framework of a once lush canopy and the mellow glow of burning amber upon our Mother’s floor.
Death… a means to life.
Life… a means to death.
Again, the green will bloom with the passing of the winter’s tide; and yet again will brown, embrittle and return to the ground from which it was born. But the true beauty and zeal of life’s chorus can be found in the fire-storm of red, yellow and rust that whistles and wails, ever so briefly, between the flower and the fall.
Lucas G Irwin