Amphitheatre Seats
Steffe
Autumn leaves fall like a shower of gold coins, the last gifts of mother nature before winter sets in.
On the silvered wood of an amphitheatre, seats will not be warmed by expectant spectators until the icy sheen of winter melts away. The leaves fade, soften. There will be no one around to slip and slide on the on the decaying litter.
They fall in a shower of coins but slowly slide into winter, where perhaps a blood red sunset will hasten them away. Autumn winds will whip them up and scatter them. They will be covered by a shroud of snow until spring arrives to warm the silvered wood, ready for the first performance of a new year.
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