Every day, I bike along the Nieuwe Maas and witness the transition of nature through the seasons on my skin: the city’s breath, both cold and warm, as my body wakes, and slowly reaches equilibrium with summer. Trees shed foliage in golden tears, tears coloured in warmth and comfort. I witness nature preparing for slumber. On an uneventful spring morning, little sprouts will stretch awake towards a summer canopy.
But in this story, the trees are spectators, just like me, experiencing the changes on our skins, creatures at the mercy of the seasons. The true protagonist is the sun, for without the sun there would be no seasons. With the year’s metamorphosis, the sun’s angle bends. It hangs low and friendly in winter, unreachable and powerful in summer. As it turns, the sun paints a new portrait of the city.
Today, it hovered just above the horizon on a bright cerulean sky, high enough to conceal the buildings. A blanket of soft mist blurred the skyline into a surreal dream, over an equally blue surface with giggles of silver. The portrait of a dream.