Before sunup yesterday morning, Don and I left for Springfield, where Don had an eye doctor appointment. Outside the air had been scrubbed clean by the overnight rain, and a whip-poor-will sang the final cadences of the night shift.
Along the way, fog blanketed the bottoms, and drifted through the woods, making the trees stand out like sentries in the mist. And everywhere, there was water. It flowed along the highway and streamed out of the rocks. Small creeks had become rivers, swift and muddy; near Forsyth, Beaver Creek had escaped its bounds and filled the valley, covering the park. In town, the tennis courts were about 15 feet underwater.
I snapped a few pictures from the car window, but there wasn't time to stop long. So this morning I went to the lake before sunrise, hoping to capture the same thing when there was more time to compose. However, in nature, as in life, one seldom gets "overs". There wasn't much fog and the sunrise was muted. I took a few pictures anyway, just for drill.
Meanwhile, Barley stood to the side, knee deep in the water, begging me to throw a stick for him to retrieve. I obliged him, then went back to my camera, and just started to shoot again when he walked into the picture and sat down in the water precisely in line with the sunrise. He had apparently sensed my need, and obliged me with the best photo op of the morning. What a dog!
