You are not photographing autumn.
You are photographing your own private version of it—the version that exists only in the lustery gap between what your eyes see and what your heart feels. The cam is just a polite fiction. The real apparatus is your memory, your nostalgia, your quiet terror of January. lustery autumn cam
I am standing in the beautiful wreckage of time, and I have chosen to look carefully. That is all. That is everything. You are not photographing autumn
You take one final shot. Not of the tree, but of your own shadow, stretched long and thin across the wet grass. In the lustery light, your shadow looks older than you. Wiser. More resigned. but of your own shadow
You lower the camera.