Profiles
As spring is notionally possible, so the light that accompanies it is edging forwards. That means that the standard timed walk is now starting to go from deepest chocolate into chocolat creme: the sky sometimes seems to be a part-chewed fancy item from that christmas box found languishing in the sweet basket.
The result of this is to bring profiles into the fore. Under the black rule there were few shadows, and no edges, unless the cloud was low, and light was bounced off the sky. Then, and only then, were profiles pushed against the heavens. Now, with that creeping light (and light is ambiguous about whether it will show, or not) there are the first of the profile displays.
The winter-trimmed poplars by the boatyard stick out, all thumbs but few fingers. The still-luxuriant willows down stream have a bad hair day by comparison: all frizz and no body. The stilted bypass is a smooth sweep, punctuated by creamy yellow spectres of light as cars move towards academia or the great wen.
On the edge of the multiple meadows, just across from the chub stream, the Grand Designs candidate is all angles and edges against a slightening sky. Last, but not least, a heron outlined, tremulous in its certainty, stands, then moves, taking night away with it as it flaps into the morning.