A Rainy Winter Day

Photo: Ileana Johnson 2019

It’s been raining for three days, the kind of soaking rain that turns low areas into veritable marshes. Small creeks of muddy water are running down slopes, cutting deep ruts into the hills. Tree roots are beginning to stick out of the river banks, dripping chunks of mud into the river. Fast rivulets are draining from under a deep carpet of dead leaves concealing tree veins as thick as my arm.

It is a cold and dreary day of 43 degrees F, and the steady rain cloaks the thick woods into a curtain of fog-like mist which elongates the bare branches of the tallest trees. One solitaire evergreen adds a spot of dark green to the tall and orange grasses covering the ground of the forest.

The birds, normally darting about and chirping happily are nowhere to be seen, save for the occasional red cardinal or a blue jay. High up on a tree I spot two eagles resting in the haze. Even the deer, foxes, and squirrels are taking shelter. The woods seem deserted of life.

Photo: Ileana Johnson 2019

 

Nature, even in its dormant and rain-soaked state, surrounds me with a beautiful calm and peace. I walk carefully to the pier that stretches far enough into the Potomac that part of it actually belongs to the state of Virginia and the rest belongs to the state of Maryland.  The division of territory is so strange.

My boots sink in murky ground until I reach the wooden walkway to the pier. The sandy beach is saturated with water and covered in dead leaves and branches carried by the rain. The brown water is overflowing its banks and I can see the furious current in the middle bubbling like a boiling cauldron. Should anybody fall into this river right now, it will be unlikely that they would survive the powerful water run.

The river is obscured by a blanket of grey; the sky and the water are an indistinguishable dreary mist from far away. Tall grasses and the occasional evergreen mark God’s perfect painting with natural colors, light orange and dark green.

This time last year the river was crystal clear and blue, frozen solid for a few days, then melted into thick chunks and sheets of ice slowly pushed away from the middle towards the shore by a slower current. If the frigid bluish orange sun hit the ice just right, it sparkled like a chest full of precious diamonds.

The ice had been so thick, blue herons and a few daring fishermen were bold enough to walk on it far away from the shore looking for a break in the ice to fish. In thinner ice spots closer to the banks, the current was moving underneath with determination, trying to crack the ice. The crunching sound underfoot left prints in the frozen ground and crushed the water snails strewn across the sand.

My rubber boots are leaving mud tracks on the wet pavement. A few daring sea gulls flock boldly on the wet asphalt close to me and around the marina where boats normally dock, unafraid of my presence. I take in the crisp and humid air and photograph the forest through raindrops on my camera lens.