I'm going to work for you, right?

The woods began just a few yards beyond the barn,

 and once in them and out of the sun it was damp, 

with the damp chilliness of early spring. 

The ground was soft, the green moss on the tree trunks shone like jewels. 

I picked my way carefully in my old ballet shoes, 

trying to avoid really sharp rocks and soggy places.

I was wearing a pair of blue jeans pulled over a black leotard

 and bound about with a royal blue sash.

My hair was loose and kept getting caught in the branches 

and my bare feet in their slippers were chilly.

We forded a stream. That is, Tomi, forded it easily enough in her loafers. 

I, being a city girl, didn't even try: I slipped off my soggy slippers 

and stepped right into the icy, fast-running water.

The stream was quite shallow and not very wide, 

but when I stepped out my feet and ankles were white as parchment ,

 two of my toes were numb, and the bottoms of my jeans were dripping. 

The far bank of the stream sloped and we clambered up, 

slipping and sliding, laughing and pelting each other with leaves and pieces of bark.

At last the ground grew drier, it leveled off,

 and we came to a clearing full of sunshine where a few huge boulders 

lay basking and sunning themselves.

I climbed a rock and lay down on my back in the sun,

one arm thrown over my eyes to shield them and my wet muddy shoes set beside me to dry.

I could feel the warmth from the stone soak into my body, 

could hear the headlong rush of the stream full of melted snow, 

and the soft, hesitant rustles and occasional birdcalls 

of the woodland creatures in my self-created darkness.

excerpt from "Memoirs of a Beatnik" by Diane Di Prima 

photography by the ever-amazing Sophie Mörner (who I'd love nothing more than to work for???) 

That's all I got.

Hope you're all loving fall, my dears.