Seasons

Rich, green grass stretched over the hills and through the valley. In the west, a forest sprang from the ground with happy, healthy emerald canopies. A warm breeze kissed the skin of a lone, young woman at the base of a hill. Golden hair was pulled away from her plump face that revealed round, dark eyes and a warm smile. She carried nothing with her and her feet were bare. As she walked, a chill wind brushed the grass behind her.
Forest soon spread out in front of the woman in each direction; the deep hues of summer consumed her vision. There she stopped. From her sleeve, she drew out an object, a paintbrush. The simplest, oldest thing you can imagine. No paint coated the bristles, but the woman lifted her hand to the leaf of a low hanging branch. With a flick of her wrist, she coated the leaf with a sparkling gold. It shone in the light like it had been drawn by the great illuminators from centuries passed. However, the girl gave no notice to her first creation. Instead, she moved on painting the other leaves. Some stayed shimmering gold, others were made into a burning garnet, and a few were colored a deep crimson. Soon the foliage transformed into an all encompassing fire. The woman swept her brush low across the grass, and the green carpet began to fade and sink into the dark floor. Newly dressed trees shed their leaves and blanketed the earth with rich colors. Sap dripped from the trunks of the trees and glittered in the fading light like already hardened amber. Still the woman danced and dodged through the forest, quickening each step and lengthening each stroke. The breeze that followed her became sharp and chill. It awoke the leaves from their languid sleep and made them dance with the painter. Her brush swept through bushes and over streambeds. Foxes gave chase to fattened rabbits, and lazy owls barely opened a single eye as they passed. In the center of the forest, the artist came across a shallow pond; however, she did not stop. Instead she continued to paint and dance into the water. When she reached the middle she swirled the paintbrush around her feet and worked her way up till she reached above her head. Wind, now in full force, shook the canopy and sent its leaves floating down into the water. Light of the setting sun shone through the openings and made the pond look like it was made of honey.
At last the woman rushed out of the forest, knowing her work was nearly done. Behind the trees a mountain range rose up to the sky, and the painter lifted her brush one last time. Like a conductor of an orchestra she pulled the brush and the paint upward in sharp strokes. Instead of a grey blue, the rocks became a deep violet that shadowed the fire of the trees and the gold of the grass. Finally, the woman took a deep breath and lowered her paintbrush. It was safely placed back in her sleeve and she turned on her muddy heel and strode back through the valley and over the hills.
With a glance back, the artist smiled at her work. Her job was finished only temporarily until she was needed again. For she is the painter of the seasons, and her name is Autumn.