River in the Early Morning | 40×120 cm

Description

The sun’s barely peeked over the horizon, and I’m already out in the riverlands. Everything’s blurry with a kind of soft, silver veil—mist. The water’s got this faint shimmer between the tall reeds and those low bushes. It’s like someone sprinkled a bunch of tiny mirrors all over the place, reflecting the sky. Every now and then, the sun tries to bust through the fog, giving me a quick peek at the world. I’ll catch a cluster of trees, standing tall like sleepy giants over the water, or a little open pond, just sparkling like a puddle of melted silver. Sometimes, a patch of land will peek out, kinda shy, from the mist.

There’s this amazing smell hanging in the air – damp dirt, earthy moss, and sweet reeds, all mixed together. It’s heavy and fresh at the same time, like a secret whisper from hundreds of years ago. My feet sink in a little with each step on the soft, wet ground. All around me, I hear the reeds doing their soft, rustly dance against each other. Then, a shaft of sunlight will cut through the fog, lighting up a bit of water or a few trees. It makes me feel like the whole world is just showing off for me, personally.

The trees by the pond are all short and twisty. Their branches are heavy with moisture and mist, draped with strands of moss like old, velvety curtains in an old theater. The water tries to mirror their gnarled shapes, but the fog keeps messing with the reflection, turning it into these wavy, dancing shadows. It’s like the whole landscape is breathing. A gentle wave of mist will drift over a pond, then roll right over the path and even brush my hands as I walk through it. It’s almost magical.

Everything feels like it’s in slow motion out here, like time itself decided to take a chill pill. I just keep walking, listening to the water gurgling around the tree roots, the little tap-tap of twigs falling, and the rustle of tiny critters hiding in the reeds. Every so often, the mist decides to pull back for a sec, showing me something it was hiding. Like this ancient tree, its roots half in the water, half on the bank, with branches reaching up to the sky like tired arms. A bunch of little birds are hopping along its branches, like they’re having a tiny party. Then, the fog just rolls back in, wrapping them up again. The landscape just gives you a quick flash of itself before it melts back into pure mystery.

The path bends around this big pond. The water’s smooth as glass, reflecting all these soft colors from the mist – pale blue, gentle gray, and a little flicker of gold where the sun’s trying to peek through. The reeds along the water’s edge sway real gentle in the breeze. Suddenly, it feels like the whole place is alive, breathing, and whispering to me, real softly: Really look. Really listen. Tread lightly.

I hear the distant chorus of frogs, low and rhythmic, like they’re singing some ancient song only they know. A bunch of dragonflies zip over the water, their wings glinting like delicate glass. I just stop, breathe in, breathe out, feeling the mist practically stroke my cheeks. Everything’s still, but it’s totally full of life at the same time.

Slowly, the sun climbs higher. The mist starts to pull back, but it’s still playing games with the light. Shadows and shapes keep shifting, and the wet landscape shows off another side of itself. Here’s a sparkly pond, there’s a bunch of trees that look like they’re dancing in the breeze. It’s like I’ve stumbled into a secret world, a place not everyone gets to see. And I know I’ll keep this moment locked in my memory, like a precious treasure.

As I head out of the floodplains, the mist curls around me one last time. It whispers: “Come back. There’s always more to discover.” I walk back to the solid path, but I feel like I’m carrying a piece of that magic from the reeds and riverbanks with me – a breath of mist and water that’ll stay in my heart, even when I’m far away from here.

Written by Elise Eekhout

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