Green leaf, red leaf

We have a red-leaf hedge behind our house. It faces north, which means the setting sun casts interesting sidelong shadows through the fence - at least when I take the time to look at them.

When the leaves initially grow out of their buds in spring, they're quite a rich shade of red. Every year, I mean to capture them with my camera and, every year, I neglect to follow through. The ground is usually snowy and/or muddy, and as a result I never seem to get back there when the color is at its brightest. Sadly, their surfaces become more dusty-looking as we transition into summer. Eventually, there's little reason to meander over to the hedge for a closer look. The brilliant color has simply faded into a shadow of its former self.

Last week, while tending the BBQ and trying to avoid a culinary meltdown, I noticed a glint of red coming from the ground. I wandered over and saw this lone, fallen leaf in the parched earth. I'm not going to get metaphysical on you and say that it was a sign from above. But I ended up with a series of pictures of brilliant red that I wouldn't have otherwise had. I'm glad I took the time to look, and to wander.

The green leaf, the big brother, if you will, was a counterbalancing bonus. I silently debated whether I should include it in my little vision of red, and ultimately decided that it made sense to have it there. These two bright swaths of color just seemed to work so richly against the bare background with the slash of light through it.

Even better, our supper came out really tasty.

Your turn: Do certain scenes or images almost call out to you to be taken? Do you believe in photographic fate?