The autumn weeks have been lovely, albeit a bit ruggedly ugly. It’s raining, and the river’s surface is rising back to normal from the record low levels of summer. There’s no sign of cold just yet; the cloudy, rainy weather keeps the air warm, and winter doesn’t seem to be arriving. Time is balancing between new work arrangements and dear people, trying to share it sufficiently with everyone and everything. The rush hasn’t visited here yet, but it’s already knocking at the door now and then. I’m trying to avoid it for as long as possible; it’s not a welcome guest in my cabin with its otherwise open doors.

I sat by the riverbank in the morning. It was drizzling a little, tiny droplets falling; otherwise, it was clear. I sat there and stared into emptiness. For the first time in a long while, there was nothing to do at home, no one for coffee or conversation. I was alone with the misty morning.

It felt really good.

Towards the south river bend, a mist began to develop overhead. At first, just a little, barely noticeable to the eye. The waterfowl on the opposite shore glided between the mist and the water as if in the current of the underworld. Silently, as if by a mutual agreement.

The mist gathered strength for a moment in the bend of the river before it dared to reach the trees along the shore. There, it slithered its tendrils like seawater during high tide. The birch groves along the shore were drowned in a delicate veil of mist. The mist continued its journey, becoming excited as it found extra strength hidden in the forest, gliding silently along the surface of the river.

In an instant, it passed by me, obscuring the birch grove on the opposite shore as it indifferent continued its path to the next bend in the river. Perhaps there sat the next person watching this natural display.