The persistent and rhythmic sound of rain falling on the attic roof is unable to calm the current circuit of thoughts racing through my brain at what feels like 100 inconsequential considerations a second. Struggling to grasp onto a single trail, one thread eventually takes root. A tree, the tree.
I can’t recall when the tree appeared, but I do know the date I angled my lens towards it. It was the 18th of September 2024, the tree in question had been washed down the Wharfe in the last heavy rains and found itself caught in the stepping stones by Burley (in Wharfedale) weir.
Debris like this isn’t an uncommon sight on this fast-changing river and the shifting arrangement of the landscape here is very much a part of its character. So it wasn’t until I noticed a kingfisher on it that this makeshift island really caught my attention.
Like humans, kingfishers are always on the lookout for a new opportunity, something to make their day’s toil more efficient. With its branches extending into the margins of the weir, it provided an advantageous spot for catching the small fry that flirted between the depths of the pool and the shallows of the stepping stones.
As the subsequent days passed, I visited as often as I could. Hiding behind the weir wall on one side, hunkering down within the eroded bank on the other. It wasn’t just the kingfisher making the most of this temporary platform either, a dipper and pair of grey wagtails too incorporated it into their daily quests for food.
The thickening and loudening of the raindrops overhead landed me back in the attic. The popular tree unlikely to resist the inevitable torrents of a day’s incessant rain. And that will be that. The end of an idea. The seed of a photographic idea that had germinated briefly and will be quite literally washed away. But then, maybe something else will wash up in its place, presenting new opportunities for both bird and photographer.