Everything is dry in the forest. Rain is very rare this year, and I notice it clearly as I walk along familiar paths. Even the mushrooms, which so desperately need moisture, are now fighting for survival. Their normally plump caps appear shriveled, their stems thin and brittle. An unfamiliar sight that makes me think.
Where the leaves usually crunch damply beneath my feet and the earthy scent of mold and life hangs in the air, they now rustle brittlely. The leaves on the trees appear dull, no longer the vibrant green I love so much. Some have already changed color, even though autumn is still a long way off. It feels as if the forest is holding its breath, as if it is longingly waiting for a release that may never come.
The dryness is particularly evident in the small, inconspicuous details. The moss cushions, which usually appear so lush, are hard and dusty. Small rivulets that quickly swell into murmuring rivers after a normal rain are now nothing more than dried-up ravines. Traces of this scarcity are everywhere: cracked earth, withered grasses that bend limply to the ground.
I photograph the mushrooms anyway. Even if they're not looking their usual magnificent selves, they are still worth recording. The story of this summer, the story of how nature adapts, but also, how it struggles. Occasionally, when a small slip of sunlight breaks though the dark canopy and the light falls on one of these resistant mushrooms, one gets a brief piece of beauty to take home from the wasteland. It is nature's way of saying, even when hard times arise, I will always try my best.
Walks like this remind us today how precious water is and how dependent we are on natural cycles. You feel the urgency, the need to use our resources carefully. Not only is the forest thirsty, the entire landscape is crying out for refreshment. People are desperately hoping for the longed-for rain that can finally end this silent cry and breathe life back into the forest.
