The Whisper of Old Growth

There’s a hush here.

Not silence, exactly, but a kind of sacred quiet. The kind that feels like the earth itself is holding its breath.

Walking in this old-growth forest is like stepping into the ribs of a cathedral. The trees rise around me like ancient pillars, thick and unwavering, their branches reaching high above in tangled, shadowy embraces.

The light here is soft, fractured. Gentle shards filtering through the canopy, touching the forest floor like hesitant blessings.

Every step feels deliberate.

The ground is soft underfoot — moss, fallen leaves, the crumbling remains of giants who came before. Each step sinks in just enough to remind me: this place is alive.

Alive in a way that makes me feel small.

But not insignificant.

I stop beside one of the trees. Its trunk is massive, rough and furrowed like the face of something impossibly old.

I press my hand to it.

For a moment, I imagine I can feel it breathing, slow and steady. I wonder how many storms it’s weathered. How many mornings it’s greeted, watching the sun climb through centuries of dawns.

What has it seen?