Ain’t My Season

As we turn on an axis unseen, seasons shift—quietly, inevitably. And with them, the land changes its expression.

Summer, however, is not the season I find myself drawn to. Specially not when I am away from the mountains.

Heat unsettles the frame

The light is harsh, almost unrelenting. The sky is blazing, pale and flat under its intensity. Water has receded, leaving behind dry beds and cracked earth. The landscape feels exposed, stripped of its softness that usually holds my attention. Nature is not at ease, it is enduring.

And in many ways, so am I.

This is also the time when stepping out becomes difficult. The instinct is to retreat, to wait it out rather than move through it. And perhaps that is what I find most limiting—not just the heat, but the inability to wander freely, spend hours walking a trail observing the natural world around or follow light the way I usually do.

Yet, even within this resistance, the eye continues to search.

Holding the memory of water

Not for beauty in the usual sense, but for what the season is quietly revealing—traced through nature’s response.A patch of earth, split and parched, holding the memory of water.A frame that refuses stillness, where heat and light blur into something unsettled.A fallen flower, resting on a sunlit surface, its colour subdued but not lost.

This is not a season that announces itself gently.

For me, it becomes less about movement and more about pause. Less pursuit, more acceptance. Perhaps that is what summer asks for.

Colour still remains

It is not a season I seek, but one I am learning to observe—on its own terms. Because in the end, it is not about nature changing for us, but about recognising what is already there, and framing it with intent.