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 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.