Engaging the Mist
On a foggy, winter morning I visited a small, city park. No one was there. The air was breathlessly still. I could feel the moisture against my skin and smell the layers of wet leaves passing their decaying gas beneath the thick forest canopy. I heard a fish jump from the water and lightly splash back while a mourning dove cooed forlornly, waiting for a ray of sunshine atop a tree. Then, at the water's surface a cloud of fog rolled in, turning the water from a "creeky" green/brown to a brackish, grey/white. Maybe you will also experience the feeling of that place, on that morning.
The small tree on the right, right by the edge of the road, held berries like old grapes, but absolutely no leaves. It stood proudly against the mass of confusion behind it, having its moment and 15 minutes of fame in front of my camera.
What is it about these mistreated places where nature cares nothing about the aesthetics? Even here I suppose you can find something, if not solitude then perhaps wonder.
A dried up creek bed wandered into an uncertain past while its future lay blocked by years of debris.
Midwinter leaves, when they're visible, tell of yesterday's dreams and tomorrow's promises.
The dark spaces beneath overhanging grass suggested a cave, or at least a sheltering spot at water's edge.
A simple memorial marked the spot of some unfortunate event.
