It’s sad, but inevitable. The days are now so short I can no longer walk through the park on my way to the station. That means, for a few weeks, no sight of ducks or geese or coots or moorhens or the heron. No quiet calm of the early morning mist rising off the pond. No time outdoors in daylight.
Instead it’s the twice daily walk along the long, dull road. Trying to leap puddles too big for my meager long-jump skills. A different set of people to say good morning to.
I know it’s not a major thing to get saddened by. But I miss spending a few precious, peaceful moments in the park each day.
I don’t find winter the easiest time of the year. I love Christmas, but after that it’s a long, hard slog. Spring is when I thrive, filled with energy and new ideas.
At least I know that, in a few weeks, I will be able to walk through the park again. And a few months after that I’ll be able to watch the new ducklings scoot about the pond, each intent on their own mission. The seasons come, each in their turn, and bring different glimpses of beauty in nature. I just need to try and remember this at 7.15am in the morning, hurdling puddles under the sodium glow of the street lamps.
Wild South 