A mild November morning, dampened by the light, yet steady rainfall of the small hours.
I stand at my usual vantage point at the bottom of the garden, cradling the ceramic warmth of Saturday coffee out of doors.
The stream below me is swollen, engorged: it flows with renewed purpose and focus, no longer meandering across loose rocks, but forceful and direct; single-minded.
Two herons introduce themselves to my field of vision, gliding in perfect silence and carving an arc through the air that follows the precise line of the stream.
They are of the air, yet their unison and path blurs elemental lines: they swim through the air, liquid in their perfect flowing movement.
Less than two seconds, but a meaningful encounter to renew and refresh at the start of the weekend.
A lone leaf trickles through the air as it falls: contact upon the water transforms its movement instantly, accelerating it on a direct and linear path onwards. I take a deep draught of coffee and wonder where it will end up.
Old raindrops continue to fall sporadically from the bare branches of the ash tree above me. The water hits the ivy that blankets the trunk, causing odd leaves to suddenly wave, giving movement and life to this comforting November morning.
Winter remains yet to show its teeth.
The season continues to dismantle the last vestiges of autumn, yet life continues in abundance: smaller, intimate, fleeting, but critically, there.
A Seasoned Soul. 