It begins with a feeling, barely there. A song from a dream you can’t remember. It might just be the most beautiful song in the world, the way it strains your nerves with effort to recall. Once floating in waves of melody, bathed in golden light. Now adrift in fragments are the embers, unwilling to return, to fuse, to reunite. Though their smolder continues until there’s nothing left, just smoke and ashes. Smoke and ashes. A haunt of a scent that gets stronger, infusing the air sepia, as it sweetens in the growing chill.A sacred incense wafts when the leaves ignite. They burn slowly. So slowly, their fires are held in stills, in millions of instants and glimpses, reiterated loosely above, all around. A perfect five-pointed spark on the tip of a match, held between two tender fingers. The only kind of flame that can withstand the rain. Yellow, orange, red, under grey clouds that linger longer in quickening days. Darkness begins to pull down, heavy at the edges of every dawn, noon and sunset, promising bitter cold ahead.For now. For now, begins every thought about the season. For now, we soak up the last of the warmth. For now, we leave the coats hanging. For now, we savor the harvest. Our thoughts turn inward toward the passage of time. How it holds us so intensely within this chamber, limbed and veined. The rush of turbulent movement so tightly veiled, sheer turning to transparent light, until it drops, one by one at our feet.Text and images by M.P. Baecker.