Across the Waterline

Some landscapes meet you exactly where you are and somehow still guide you forward.

I followed the creek until the rocks opened into a shallow stretch of water, just enough to catch the sky. The trees along the bank appeared in two places at once—lifting into the air and drifting across the surface below. Same place, two expressions, shifting with the moment.

As I walked, the scene adjusted in quiet steps. Light evolving, branches redrawing their outlines, the reflection sliding over the stones as the water carried it forward. Nothing fixed. Nothing resisting. Everything moving into the next shape almost before I noticed the last one.

Trees above.

Trees in the water.

A moment expanding and reorganizing itself in real time.

There was a grounded flow to it—an ease in how the landscape shifted and still held its form. Every step offered a new frame, a fresh angle, a subtle transition that changed the entire view with just a small shift in position. It all felt like a natural sequence, each part preparing the way for whatever came next.

I continued along the creek, the doubled trees moving with the current beside me. The whole scene eased forward, steady and responsive, reshaping itself with every bit of ground I traveled. A quiet kind of progress, unfolding one change at a time.