Wandering is the word.
After an evening of sights like these
the comfort of a simple place warms body and mind.
Dark grey clouds were now looming; threatening.
A downpour within minutes drenched me on my bicycle.
As the water is washing away the brownest soil we could make out the truest variation of green against the dark sky of the afternoon.
I wipe away my mud sloshed bicycle with handfuls of water flowing down from the roof.
The chill of the water – cleansing; the quality – pristine.
As the early light gently awoke the sleeping night, the landscape of a tiny hill was painting itself; the standing mist rose among the young trees making them a shade lighter; waking them to what was going to be a clear day.
Further into the day, away from the still lakes and misty aura of the evergreens, the path cuts through the landscape of dry forests of low trees, revealing deer that were rather part of the trees and grass around them than themselves.
Back in the city sans sleep.
I dare not ask why.