There is a dead snake on the path, bicycle tracks across its body. Two noisy kingfishers fly from the tennis court fence to the river and back again. A blue heron lifts from behind some bushes; passes by me with its awkward grace; turns so that its slate-grey self has a backdrop of brilliant autumn maples; and flies downriver. A beaver lazily enters the water.
I’m glad that I have forgotten my camera, as I would doubtless be fumbling with that, instead of just feeling the embrace of this glorious grey morning.
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