"Where do jack-o-lanterns go to die? In John Breiner’s mind they aren’t left to rot under the cool fall sun, or pressed into the backyard compost, oozing orange guts and seeds. In ‘Pumpkin Pond’ there’s a graveyard for them too, a mass burial ground. A dumping site for our more colorful selves, the selves that only come out to play when there’s a holiday to tell us to. The ink is draining from the gourds and pooling out into the water. A sole mourner stands in the rain at the foot of the mound."