Every autumn, for a few days, the bog turns into something extraordinary. The fields are flooded, the vines are stirred, and the ripe cranberries float free to the surface, until the water disappears beneath a solid sea of crimson. It is a harvest that looks like a painting even before anyone paints it.
In the foreground the berries stretch away in every direction, thousands upon thousands of them, ruby, scarlet and deep wine red, pressed together so tightly they seem almost solid. A long wooden boom holds them in, curving across the picture in a graceful S, its weathered planks the colour of driftwood.
Beyond the boom, the water is open and still, a clear cobalt blue that mirrors everything above it. On the far shore, the trees are at the height of their colour. Tamaracks glow saffron gold, maples burn orange and flame, and dark pines stand among them in deep green. Each one appears twice, once on land and once again, upside down and shimmering, in the water.
On the right bank, a small weathered red barn sits among the trees, its roof grey, its walls the same deep red as the harvest. It is the only building in sight, the quiet keeper of the bog. Above, a bright blue sky holds a few small white clouds.
The painting is made in the Neo-Impressionist manner, entirely from small dots and dabs of pure colour placed side by side. Up close it is a shimmer of points, red beside orange, blue beside violet; from a few steps back, the colours blend in the eye and the whole scene vibrates with light, as crisp and bright as an October afternoon.