It’s misty. Not the cold, damp tendrils we’re used to, but a warm, comforting, enveloping mist, a blanket of grey whose edges reach out and caress the earth, leaving a touch of moisture, a faint glitter on leaves and stone.
The air smells earthy and thick. We’re waiting, me and the birds and the insects. We sit, still and expectant in the brume, feeling a change in the distance but of what, I’m not certain.
The seasons are shifting under my feet. The trees know it, the earth knows it. Berries hang thick and juicy, blackbirds picking out shiny, plump fruits, readying for the colder months ahead. The close of summer is early this year. We all know it, deep inside, thought we do not speak of it aloud. Subtle energy, a hint on a breeze.
The colourful riot of flower and growth is over now, plants in a sense of stasis, a check, that stillness awaiting the unknown force that signals autumn is on it’s way. The mist hangs, we hang. The in-between. The bridge.
I exhale and feel my breath go nowhere, just slowly mingling, dissipating into the cloud, a part of me fading into the warm air. A sprinkling patter touches my ears and soon my bare skin feels it too. Tiny raindrops settle on my forearms, on my hair. A spider’s web is picked out slowly in diamonds.
I stop writing and sit in the drizzle and watch and absorb and exist.