Photographers are strange and wonderful creatures, archaeologists of light. Sometimes it seems that every image of Autumn is this vast mosaic of leaves and symmetry, frail skeletons that once wore life and loomed with a perfect geometry. Maple and Oak, in particular, seem to feature often. When I look at such photographs, it's like seeing the bones of long dead snowflakes, dug up in Spring. At that point a part of me hates those grave-diggers, for some mysteries are better unresolved.










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