Autumn and Entropy - The Tapestry

Autumn

I bumped into an old friend out on the open road one fine October afternoon. In fact, it was much more than fine, it was a remarkably rare late fall afternoon, gloriously mild and brimming with sun-drenched vistas and gold dipped landscapes. It was the kind of day when a warm breeze beckons from high hillocks dotted with pennants of shimmering orange and yellow bearing the standards of Autumn. Where the fragrant breath of a warm wind whispers enticing summons from the valleys and dales of a glowing countryside.

 On that day, the last of the warm winds departed with sweet tidings and balmy farewells. Wafting through dappled groves of glistening amber verdure in a melodic swansong accompanied in serendipitous chorus by the swaying Birch, ash and oak. The seasonal procession was passing through and its heralds of wood and stone and sky bid all who would listen to rejoice in harmony under its golden marquee.

 It was indeed one of those rarest of days, a sublimely temperate and comfortable October paradox, saturated in rich crimson and zesty citrus hues. Nature, the quintessential artist commanded the easel that day and remade each landscape into wondrous living tapestries. Shades of lemon and peach and rose oscillating in the radiant bloom of sunshine created such palettes and harmonies, no descriptions befitted them. For they were the colors of tenuous life that occur only during the last moments of waning fall and the final harvest.

 I cherished those singular moments more than most others as I knew what lay in store in the coming months. Deep in the root of my Canadian bones I was loath to watch the last drops of fire and gold descend from those maples up on the hillocks. I was loath to forget the sweet aura carried on the back of a warm breeze fresh off the bay. I loathe what lies in wait as the days grow short and the shadows grow long, and I cannot help but suffer a tear as I rejoice in autumn and watch as its sanguine procession fades.

 The passing of autumn and the waning light of the sun created a deep despondency within me that required all the stoic strength I could muster to abate the tide of that emotion. But, I shall not speak of such things for that exceptional October eternity was as fine a thing as any and deserves its revered place in my memory.

A place where troubled thoughts and dim providence hold no sway. This tale is not about terrible and dire premonitions or adversity. This tale is about that friend I spoke of, he who travels alongside me down all the strange and wondrous roads. This tale is about him.

Stardust

 At exceptional times of the year, the collision of light at the ethereal frontier of our pale blue dot, refracted in a particular sort of way causing the long shadows of fall to deepen into bottomless wells. Crashing against the heavens, those photons deform the waves and coax the colors to bleed warmth and to saturate the world in rich hues. October can be a glorious month as the infinite scattering of atoms and colliding particles shift the spectrum in a wild tangent away from the crisp blues and lush green's of the adolescent months.

 I travel across that seasonal tapestry glowing in titian light, as Euclidean geometry and Einsteinian law dance in unison and tint the world in all the magnificence that is autumn. I stop here and there to bask in the splendor of those scenes but take no notice as that ancient light ends a long journey across unimaginable cosmic gulfs and across the blue threshold of the earth to come to rest upon the apex of my vision.

 I did not notice the imperceptible starbursts igniting across the sea of rods and cones in the boundless depths of my shining blue eyes and noticed only the radiance of ephemeral Autumn. I blink once not wanting to miss a moment of this fleeting paradise as those stellar remnants scribe a mystic chemistry and etch a permanent record of their ageless journey into my memory.

 That day I bore witness to a land ablaze with the light of the vast stellar foundries that churn endlessly out beyond the reach of both space and time. Distant light whose influence has crossed the yawning black voids and gulfs and come to caress my skin and light my way. From the far edge of an endless Black Sea, they shape my emotions with color and guide my destiny with light as the vast reach of those radiant patrons do indeed determine the course of all who take notice. I had vowed many years ago that never would there be a moment when I did not rejoice in the radiance and the beauty of such things.

Cabals and Cohorts

The sun had blessed the far-flung rural domains of the county with one last glimpse at Autumnal magnificence. One

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last call for the children of the sun to take heed and venture forth one last time into that glowing brilliance afore its inevitable fade into the long gray.

Sumptuous were the sun soaked kisses and rejuvenating were the warm embraces of that pleasant day. Things to be remembered during the dim depths of January when such things are but a distant memory and tales to recount when the winds blow foul from the white wastes of February. On that October day the indomitable sun with its potent rays surged forth in glorious battle. From on high the dazzling Vanguard of a mighty golden horde was sent to protect its children against the perils of November.

That benevolent star bestowed upon all in attendance, the last kind gesture of an ailing father whose strength was waning and whose light was diminishing, to bestow the last of its gifts upon its despairing wards. I imagined a shining chalice filled with golden light spilling forth from the heavens, a torrent of aqueous hues to wash the land in stunning fire.

Magnificent and rare color stirred countless fancies within me that day. It stirred a great many things extrinsic as well, as rapturous October shook the sleeping dust from a complacent populace and awoke an indomitable horde that fine October day. A slumbering behemoth had slept upon towering shoals in distant and foreign lands. Of late, concerning rumors had reached my ear, telling of a tremendous rousing in the south, of a faceless Titan with an unwavering gaze set upon the county. My county.

For the leafers had awoken that day, called to descend upon the land by the very color and light of the fall season. The cohorts had arisen with cabals and strategem to make their pilgrimage to the quiet countryside, not unlike a swarm of locusts to the harvests.

War

For a short spell each year countless invaders overwhelmed the quiet byways of the countryside with pearlescent crossover SUVs every shade of white and gray one could imagine. Throngs upon throngs of gawkers and lookers and watchers and clickers descended from afar intent on permeating the forests and choking the once quiet trails with infectious dendrology.

Small bands of leafers redirected traffic in ad hoc fashion, while others sought to parlay with bewildered locals about ideal locations and secret vistas. Though most had come from places foreign and far removed from the dirt roads, the country air and the slower pace of rural utopias, there were a few familiar faces hidden amongst the hosts.

The leafers had materialized, as they always had, at the behest of October. Called upon to gather in numbers at such places in order to explore the transitory Shangri-La of crimson and gold, of rolling hills and hidden groves; to chronicle a land of quiet and color.

The rapport of canons echoed across the field and throughout the bough as the annual battle of the photographers commenced; the front lines were golden forests and glowing dales. They landed upon quiet beach heads whose slopes of orange and yellow emerged from cool dark waters, all the while the Canons fired.

They advanced across fallow fields where stood flaming Oaks, the solitary remnants of long forgotten forests. Toward hilltops dotted with fence posts overgrown and adorned with barbed wire the color of aged oxidation. The battle raged on that day, across the autumn front while the Canons fired and echoed in that charming rustic land.

Meetings

The luminous countryside was awake and bustling that day with a pandemonium not seen in quite some time, albeit a positively determined commotion. The countryside and all of its varied mysteries is a realm I haunt in the fair weather and the foul, and to see those old roads alive and pulsing with purpose was cause for much joy.

It was down at the far end of one of those aforementioned roads, beyond the well travelled routes, beyond the well-marked paths where I turned up that splendid fall afternoon. Out of sight I went, passing behind the orange tinged veil of Autumn, down the golden paths of birch and poplar whose boughs beckoned in shadow and light.

Those hidden ways took me far from the battlegrounds and the usurpers and into secret forgotten places. Sheltered sanctuaries that had long since passed from memory by even the wisest folk. Out there, down at the far end of that forgotten road, at the trailhead of autumn I ran into that old friend.

Serendipity played a leading role in this act, for out here in the abandoned panoramas where no willful traveler passes did I meet him. Once more out under a big blue sky and a brilliant October sun we meet. To engage out here beyond the frenetic grasp of leafers and harried battles, alone and exposed to the beauty of such things.