No ducks ply the slough, no great egrets glide. Wrung out clouds pattern the marsh in light ink. Air as crisp as cave-cooled watermelon.
Silence ambushes me in this quiet place of still water, wood pilings— remains of a mill— an old railway track.
My lungs catch a scent I am an egret sensing fish just beneath the surface. I dive. Find gratitude.
A sheet of paper laid on the marsh absorbs. A suminagashi print: Sky marbled with frayed clouds. I hang the print to dry, leave it for others. A gift of thanks.