Tracking Marimba

Autumn is an earth-based Broadway. I enjoy the show: bronze, crimson, golden-trimmed trees- captivating backdrops with many a fine actor, singer, dancer, entertaining me. Apple orchard pickings, red stripes, blush, yellow-green- Fuji, Gala, Honeycrisp, Golden Delicious- I eat it all up. Romping squirrels, spiraling leaves, wind-scattered chestnuts, weather shifts, pumpkin patch surprises-- jackolantern galleries in intermingling oranges- they all meet my heartfelt applause.

But I need more.

Autumn is an earth-based Broadway. A showy production akin to xylophone's presence. Brighter, higher-pitched moments dressed in loud and proud colors, piercing through the orchestra of seasonal delight. All the obvious, look at me, hear me, feel me instances- sensory sensations that bring the house down with communal cheers, standing ovations, and inspiring encores.

While it all entices me, I search for more, tracking marimba...

Marimba, xylophone's sister, is mellower, warmer in her own special way- an off-Broadway performance. Her costumes are not fancy. Her presence, not grandeur. Her audience is small. Her show appeals to intimate sessions when solo claps afford the best reviews.

Tracking marimba means walking off typical pathways, the common autumn boulevard, route, walkway, and lane to lesser-traveled forest, the secluded wooded areas.

In hermit mode, I am a high priestess on the brink of Scorpio season, a huntress, pacing the woods in slow-mo. Daylight dimmed by thickened forestry, shadowed canopy meets sun rays in breakthrough occurrences, lightbeams tracing a walkway through forest floored maples, dirt soiled and tattered; I steady the course with my bow and arrow. My hunting gear is not outsourced: the bow is my heart, arrow, my spirit.

My mud-mucked hiking boots are bottom-lined with accumulated maples, sticking to me as I sludge and crunch wooded wonderland. An overhead whoosh, Swallows and Flycatchers, bid me adieu, and a distant woodpecker welcomes my expedition.

A sit with it moment on an old hallowed log prepares my bow and arrow as a nearby leaning Oak sings to me.

Marimba, she is here. I've found her. Her percussion is not a belt-it-out performance. Her notes are rhythmic.

She reaches out to me, I abide. I go to her, leaning against her, reciprocating her pulsation. Tuned in to softer moments, percussion like yarn opens a heartfelt discussion. With my palm on aging wood and a head down trice, marimba graces the underbelly with a set from nature's subtle music. Her fellow actors, dancers, and singers are the lost in the shuffle autumn instances that most show seekers miss.

No bright colors. No harsh indications of seasonal transition. No over-eager performers insisting on commanding center stage. Just a delicate, finer, more intimate presentation.

Autumn is an earth-based Broadway akin to xylophone, yet I prefer marimba, her sister percussionist, found in the off-beaten path, an off-Broadway performance nestled in season attuned wooded settings.

Marimba sings to me in nature's subtleties. My applause is silent. She does not expect accolades. Only presence.

Author's Note: My entry in this challenge was inspired by my quieter, private moments spent in autumn. While I will forever be in awe of the obvious season-aligned splendor, I find the greatest beauty in the more delicate instances, which many overlook. I hope my exploration of Broadway-related themes and percussion, while nodding to nature, inspires.

Thanks for reading!