It was a gray day. The leftovers of a night of rain cooled by 37 degrees. The sky was hidden by the clouds, a solid layer of gloom that wouldn't allow even a glimpse of sunshine or blue sky which was surely lurking behind, waiting. I promised myself and others that I would breathe the fresh air today. So - cold or not, damp or not, I headed down the path into The Great Swamp Sanctuary, camera in hand.
I had planned to carry my journal and purple pen along to stop frequently and sit on the benches and swings that artfully adorn the pathway, writing as I went, snatches of thought, special words that rhyme or complete a rhythm that pleases the ear. But I left them at home, knowing it would be too cold and wet to sit. So I contented myself with taking photos of whatever drew my eye. Trees are bare this time of year, but the scenery remains intriguing none the less.
I knew I wouldn't spot alligators or loons or snakes - too cold. They, in their ancient wisdom, are holed up sleeping away the dreary days until the Earth comes around close enough to the sun in its cycle to bring the warmth of Mother Nature's breath soothingly upon them once again. But I was surprised pleasantly by the sound of the many, many birds that flitted from branch to branch and tree to tree. They sang and talked and twittered to one another, their own social network, warning of my encroaching presence or making friends that might follow them to springtime's lure of love and nests and eggs and babies. The ever turning cycle of life.
I walked and took pictures and breathed in the cold sharp smell of the damp earth, and felt satisfied and glad that I had come.