Greyness pervades the river corridor, grey sky, grey water, grey-green vegetation. The soft rain greys up the valley and sheds an irridescent greyish glow across the river.
There's a chill in the air. I wrap my raincoat tighter around me and shove my hands into its deep pockets. Today, like every day, the river has something new to reveal - a new species of bird noticed only through a different song twittering through the branches, a small new plant emerging from the softening brown earth, and a new colour scheme, shades of grey. New as it rarely rains. And grey is the colour of rain.
The place changes each day through the changes in the weather, the patterns of the movement of sun and moon, cloud and tide. I'm enveloped in this cyclical interplay.
The colour grey seems to heighten not dull the sounds and senses. The bird song seems more pronounced or perhaps the birds too are relishing the rain and singing about the wetness. The aroma rising from the earth is heady, fruity, fecund. All around me plantlets are shooting out of the soil, almost as I watch. Rain has been a long time coming and the seeds have lain dormant in the still tan soil. Now they begin to sprout. You can amost hear it.
Grey is sometimes seen as a dull colour, a colour of indecision - neither black nor white, neither one nor the other. But the river is not sombre on this grey wet day. It is brimming with life.
