by Katie Maimose

Created on: October 24, 2008   Last Updated: October 24, 2010

I take my paints down to my favorite spot, My River. I don't own it but no one goes there, even though there is a gorgeous view. I take my green backpack and put all of my equipment in it my paint, brushes, and a canvas. I write a note to my mom, who went to town, to get me something I really don't need, probably. I breathe in my last breath of artificial air until I come back. I get outside of our little old house on the riverside, carefully closing our gray broken screen door. I slowly breathe in and try to take in all the colors of fall. There is every shade of orange, yellow and brown; the only green to be found is in the grass swaying slightly underneath my bare feet.

I love every season, but the one that is best to paint is fall, all of the hue of the colors everywhere, not a different color to be found in nature. I take in everything: the smells of slowing dying leaves, the sound of the leaves crinkling while slowly floating in the wind, to rest lightly on the grass, covering up the only green color around.

I walk quickly as to not miss the sunset. I sit down on the damp ground, fresh from this morning's sprinkle of dew. I had forgotten a blanket, but I don't mind. I grab my canvas and paint and squirt yellow, brown, red, and orange on to my pallet. I start to paint.

My hands move on their own accord, weaving in and out between streams of light. I use the yellow to add the light on a yellow leaf with orange tips. I don't think I just paint. I use red and brown to make an adventurous dark red. The sun came, what I had been waiting for, the reddish orange glowing ball of light shone majestically, the leaves framing it like a cloak. There is one leaf sticking out from all the rest. It hung exactly in the middle of the place where the sun shone from the sky. It is like white in darkness, and I fully complete my painting. I look down at my painting it isn't the same.

Any painting or picture is not as good as the thing of which it was made. My painting is the best I have ever done, but somehow I can't capture the glowing light of the sun, or the colors like a fire burning for passion, as in the scene. I had my perfect moment, but it was time to go back to reality. Suddenly all of the light that had filled me from painting had gone, and I had suddenly walked into the shade. I sigh and stick all of my equipment in my bag and carefully taking my painting in my hand, I walk back to my reality.

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