A thick fog creeps downriver, hindering the view of the horizon. The landscape is shrouded in a sheet of gray. Bird calls crack the silence, echoing from the distant mist. Nothing stirs within the cloudy bubble; creating a deep sense of lonesomeness.
Where have all of the birds and animals gone? Nothing flitters to and fro. No leaves are being rustled in the underbrush. No ducks streak by in a race to claim mates. No gulls are flapping lazily overhead, screaming to one another about an opportune meal. Silence is bursting into the immediacy. There must be a storm coming soon.
A solitary woodpecker snaps the tension. Bobbing to a tree branch, he latches onto the underside and hammers furiously into the bark. The quick succession of sharp raps is broken only by intermittent and minute pauses. The featherweight jackhammer chips off debris in his quest for breakfast. Whistles and replies seep from the opposite riverbed, in what seems to be a natural response to the crushing boredom that the fog has dragged into the estuary.