Inside city hall, planners draft what become, years later, walking paths. These paths hold uncounted value for their visitors, the city residents, their neighbors.
You stretch your legs along these paths, or run, or bike. But slowing down–not your pace but your sight–you see something planners maybe missed or simply didn’t think to advertise: art and light.
In light and shadow, these paths run for miles. They cut through a gallery, unintended perhaps, that’s walled by red maple, river birch and sassafras. Or walled by tangled brush, farms and fields, gentle riversides. Or accented by a river, by a river’s unending ribbon of leaves, by its continuous stream of reflected sky.
What art deserves a place on these gallery walls?
Winter’s gnarled silhouettes, springtime’s neon yellow-greens, summer’s melting pot of leaves, and, of course, autumn’s bath of golds and reds.
And yet to many, they are simply trees, trees along a path.