This Sunday morning begins with a fragile promise. As I make my coffee, I glance out into the garden—dry, mild, quietly inviting beneath a soft quilt of cloud. For a brief moment, the day feels generous, as though it is offering us safe passage. But by the time the mug is empty, the familiar transformation has already taken place. Rain returns, unannounced yet expected, settling back into the land with calm authority. At this time of year, mild air and rain move together, inseparable companions drifting steadily through the season.
This morning unfolds beneath a muted sky, pale and endless, where grey stretches like a soft veil over the world. There is no sharpness, no contrast—just a gentle, uniform hush that seems to press the landscape into stillness. The ground glistens from last night’s rain, each puddle reflecting the low clouds above, creating mirrors of misty silver. I can almost hear the faint drip of water from saturated leaves, a quiet percussion that sets the rhythm of our walk. I sense the rain may return, but for now, the air is cool and thick with moisture, a gentle caress on the skin that makes every breath feel cleansing.
Our morning walk is quiet, calm, and familiar—the kind of day where nothing demands to be photographed, and yet everything seems worthy of notice.