There's a particular kind of patience the forest asks of you, and that day, it asked for all of it. I stood at the trailhead a long while, letting the rain taper off before starting down, knowing the path ahead would turn unkind if I moved too soon.

Once I did, I went slowly — not just for footing, but because there was so much to take in. The trail rose and fell beneath a mist-heavy sky, and everywhere I looked, the forest floor seemed to shimmer. Rain had left every fern, every leaf, every patch of moss glossy and impossibly green, as if the whole understory had been polished just for me.

I walked like that for a while, unhurried, before the silence gave way to something else: the low, steady sound of falling water. I followed it around a bend in the trail, and the forest opened just enough to reveal Bridal Veil Falls, quietly pouring itself into the mist.

I stayed there a long time, close as the trail would let me get, setting up my camera with care — composing each frame so the falls and the surrounding green stayed in conversation with each other, neither one overpowering the shot.

When I finally turned to leave, the climb back up passed almost without notice. My mind was still at the falls, and my heart, lighter than when I'd arrived, carried the rest of me home.