Between Rain and Sun - A Walk Along the River’s Breath

In the softened ground, in the manner the sky paused to clear, in the leaves, the rain had just passed its rhythm still lingering. It was the kind of afternoon that holds everything yet promises nothing. With camera in hand, I therefore followed the path beside the river, not seeking light but rather where the day would take me. 

Behind me the bridge spoke of beginnings. Moss tucked into the joints like ancient secrets on damp steel. Below it, the river flowed as though nothing had occurred—no storm, no wind, no waiting. Just move along. Always be in motion. Above, the clouds were already disintegrating at their edges, and sunlight was examining its path back in as the world smelled of rain and waking earth. 

The walk turned gently, guiding me along water who knew how to hear. The trees on either side wore beads of rain like jewels; their leaves danced in the wind. I stopped and traversed puddles reflecting the sky, half blue, half grey. Occasionally, the smallest observations speak the most. 

One bird, perhaps a cormorant, stood with outstretched wings and dried itself on a rock close to the sea. Its stillness held something sacred. not concealing, not performing. Just living. I raised my camera but did not snap. Not every frame needs to be captured. Certain people are meant to be carried just in memory. 

Golden light swept down the road like a gentle tide as the sun fought through. Greedily, the river grabbed it, turning silver where it had been gold. Branch, grass, even my own hands glinted. After holding its breath, the world seemed to be exhaling. 

I was not meeting anyone for a long time. Just the sound of my own footsteps and the light hiss of wind in wet reeds. Then, around a curve, a couple of ducks swam in lethargic circles; a dog barked in the distance—invisible, but close enough to remind me the planet was still spinning. 

Halfway through, the sun and rain came back at once. Lit by sunbeams that transformed every drop into something brilliant, a short, gentle shower fell. It was magic. Pure, unique. Slowly, heart thumping, I turned and took a shot I already knew wouldn't capture it. But the main point was not there. 

This was not a perfect picture stroll. 

This was a trek for everything in between. 

For the silence after the storm and before the gloss. for the manner light returns. For the way the world, just washed, seems to urge you to look anew slower this time. 

And as I went back to the bridge, shoes muddy, flushed cheeks from wind and curiosity, I see why I bring my camera on days like this. Not gathering pictures. 

But to recall how it felt to be caught between sun and rain.