The Last Dance

There's a moment in October in the heart of North America when nature stops speaking and begins to sing. It's the moment when summer gives way to autumn, transforming the great forests of Canada, New England, and Colorado into a kingdom suspended in the depths of the sky. One step beyond the path and reality fades into fairytale. We've come to finally meet in person His Majesty the Red Maple, so rare in Italian forests.

Being there when the woods light up with a brilliant, almost magical light, radiating fiery red, gold, and crimson through the treetops, while the wind whispers sweet words to the leaves before their imminent end, is a precious gift. 

This is how Edmond Rostand, the great French writer, has Cyrano describe the leaves "last dance”.

“The leaves are falling,” said Cyrano with a strange intonation in his voice. “How gently they fall! In their brief journey from the branch to the earth they seem to want to create a last moment of beauty, and even in the terror of rotting on the ground they give their fall the light grace of flight.”

Everything smells of damp earth and resin, the forest is immersed in a sacred, enchanting stillness.

I silently observe the play of light filtering like stardust through the branches, then slowly, reluctantly, I step on the glittering carpet of leaves that muffles my footsteps to return to the road.

These aren't just landscape photographs; they're windows onto an enchanted world, where the morning mist dances between the tree trunks like a forest spirit and the lakes reflect a breathtaking symphony of colors.

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