I photograph canoes plying the current. Downstream, a man fly-casts for trout. As the afternoon sky blushes, he reluctantly calls it quits. I remain for day's best light. Backlit by the setting sun, the river valley ignites into an inferno of blazing hues.
Reds burn bonfire crimson.
Oranges glisten like glowing coals. Golds melt with radiance while yellows gleam amber. I fire my shutter at the five-alarm colour until the shadows of dusk douse the conflagration. The next morning I stop in Bennington. While Arlington had Rockwell, this town in southwestern Vermont honours Grandma Moses.