It was early evening in late summer, when the sunlight was gentle and rich with the promise of golden light. I was walking in one of my favourite forests—the pine-cedar woodland that smelled of needles, bark and loam. This was Jackson Creek forest. Where some time ago I’d glimpsed a blue forest sprite…

The water in the creek was low, in places exposing its bones—boulders and cobbles that emerged out of the stream into the dry light. I walked along the creek bank, beside tranquil glades and chortling riffles. The creek trickled with the most delicious sounds, like chatty water sprites having tea, watercress sandwiches and fresh scones with jam …

I set up my camera on the rocks to capture the silky green and gold reflections of the overhanging trees in the water. Oak, beech, and ironwood along with shrubs and grasses crowded the banks of the creek in a parade of leaves and flowers. Long arms of the cedar tree bent low over the creek as if reaching out to touch water’s skin.

In the gladed pools, the water swirled as if in slow motion in a fluid mosaic that mirrored the riparian forest. Each tree gave the water its unique shade in a diurnal dance that heralded the coming dusk and nightfall.

I walked the ythlaf, that remnant stretch of half-dried river bed, revealed by ebbing water. A place in-between land and water. I teetered on rocks and cobbles covered in dried periphyton, and angled the camera for long exposures up to f32. I crouched, squatted, crawled and kneeled on the cobbles, boulders and snags to position the camera just right. At times I danced to keep from falling in knee-deep water and laughed with thoughts of how the sprites were watching from below and taking bets on my possible spill into the water. I imagined their chortling giggles of anticipation.  

Then, with the patience of a heron, I captured the various faces of the creek during its golden hours. The water’s silken threads sparkled in the raking sunlight and hugged the rocks in swirling clouds.

We were nearing that in-between time, when all nature hushes for a life-breath as time descends for the briefest moment into a deep stillness. We lurked like thieves in that intermediate place of becoming, a diurnal ecotone poised on the threshold between night and day. The gloaming verge of a forest where dark and light danced with uncertain intent.

Immersed in the cheerful melody of the creek, I imagined the water sprites again, playing in the watercress forest, among the spinners, caddises and stonefly nymphs. I imagined them, plump gilled water-babies or slender creatures with winking faces, diaphanous wings sparkling in the slanting sunlight as they stirred up algae and organic detritus.

Were they dancing?