I've recently returned from Washington DC and the late autumn countryside west up the Potomac River, into West Virginia. Changing environments for the eyes is like being a kid and opening a new box of crayolas - the eyes dance, I feel their excitement, they flit about every new scene, they are almost exhaustingly alive.

Peak fall color was two to three weeks ago. The countryside is now quiet, windshield travelers all back to the city. I can walk sections of the Appalachian trail without a single human interruption, save my own thoughts. Light is also quiet - Light without direction, from every direction. A walk in the forest is a muted journey from the rust and sable and Dijon end of the crayola pack - silhouettes cast against seamless sky.

My walk feels like that of a small child with his first bike and training wheels; it is a new approaching winter for me, for my eyes, I usually flee the cold, the damp, the lifeless, in winter, this time I'm staying, I'm wobbling and learning to pedal in a new Light.

Liguid Light

A few days ago fall shifted gears, cool dampness replaced crisp sun, and then the final act began, rain returned.

In that window between the two, when the season tide within fall runs slack, there is a chance to see the world differently here. Every deciduous tree and shrub is cast in autumnal hues - their time is measured by the rains - and that clock decides how the colors will pass -

some melt,
some run,
some freeze for a fleeting moment, like an exhalant breath of summer.

This year the rains began in the day, there was Light to show the way and color to paint the path.