The river steams every morning at this time of year, filling the valley with fog that lasts until mid-morning.
This is one of the magical times when the start of a new day merges with the departing night.
I love the subdued colors, the hush, the sense of not-quite-knowing what’s up ahead.
Sometimes you can just dimly make out the dark shape of a great blue heron prowling for breakfast in the shallows of the river on legs that Ichabod Crane would envy.
Sometimes you round a corner in the path and meet headlong with a deer.
And sometimes a little spot of red just catches your eye.