Autumn
Autumn is my favorite season and the leaves are just beginning to turn here in Charlotte. I love the array of colors even though at first they can be somewhat of a visual cacophony. However, when the air takes on a chill, the sun is shining down, and the wind begins to blow it becomes more of a symphony.
The orange leaves transform into the strings, the red morph into woodwinds, the purple meld into brass, and the yellow, the most common become percussion—the pulse. Driving, you see the predominance of gold and the ebb and flow of reds, oranges, purples and browns one into another along intermittent stretches of I-77. The leaves rustle together with a wonderfully soothing rhythm and I imagine Vivaldi’s Autumn as my long commute home mimics a coda at the end of the score.
Autumn is my favorite season and the leaves are just beginning to turn here in Charlotte. I love the array of colors even though at first they can be somewhat of a visual cacophony. However, when the air takes on a chill, the sun is shining down, and the wind begins to blow it becomes more of a symphony.
The orange leaves transform into the strings, the red morph into woodwinds, the purple meld into brass, and the yellow, the most common become percussion—the pulse. Driving, you see the predominance of gold and the ebb and flow of reds, oranges, purples and browns one into another along intermittent stretches of I-77. The leaves rustle together with a wonderfully soothing rhythm and I imagine Vivaldi’s Autumn as my long commute home mimics a coda at the end of the score.
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