Another day of work, another day to ride. I stop in the place I often do along the river bank where it’s just me, leaves and water, and memories of summer revelers lining up to swing from a frayed rope into the river.
Mornings brilliantly gold; half-lit mornings carpeted in silent snow; mornings hardly visible in the fog — these are why I can’t think of doing a job that would have me riding to and fro in a car, straight line, start and stop.
Artificially enhancing image color and contrast is more garish and satirical than beautiful, I think. It mocks the real. It’s the same exaggerated look my four year old daughter achieves when she tries to do her own makeup.
So I felt guilty faced as I was with leaves red, green and gold reflecting the clear morning sun into languid water. Even leaving all the sliders at zero, it seemed a little too much.
Real or not, the chance to stand a moment and watch leaves zig-zag or swirl their way down to the underworld then float away like little canoes, is all I need.