Perhaps leaves are the
shifting thrill and shrill of the tree, the talkers, the noise. But when might we
notice the first one falling? Who will catch it as it sidles down, not just a
rogue leaf but a marker, the signal of the real turn of season which is happening
now?
Maybe so it is with us, the
photograph that we wish to see does not exist. It would show the point of turn,
while containing the low voice that slips below the seeping of the songs on the
tinny, too-quiet radio. It would reveal the dishevelment of the day, of edges,
surfaces, nuances, habits while paying close attention to the lovely redundancy
of this yearly rearrangement of design which spreads and pools like a poured
liquid, at once broader and more saturated than it ever was before.
