Water — What the Forest Gives Away…

Rain is where the story begins, as it so often does here. It arrives in soft persistence rather than spectacle, soaking rather than striking. The forest receives it without ceremony. Needles and leaves slow it down. Moss holds it. Fallen logs store it. What reaches the ground does so gently, filtered through layers of living and dead matter. This patience is not accidental; it is learned over centuries. Old forests understand rain. They know how to keep it, how to release it, and how to pass it on without harm.

When those forests are intact, water behaves differently. Streams run clearer. Floods arrive later, if at all. Summer flows last longer. The land does not rush to give everything away at once. Instead, it meters its generosity, releasing water gradually, sustaining life long after the storms have passed. You can feel this in the air near an old creek—cooler, steadier, quieter. It is not abundance shouted; it is abundance managed.