Standing still long enough

I stood under a bigleaf maple today, not doing anything, just listening. The air was damp from last night's rain and the moss had that spongy, living smell. After a while the forest stopped pretending I wasn't there — I heard a squirrel chattering, a jay, someone's chainsaw a mile off. That's the show: the quiet that happens when you outlast your own restlessness, and the forest decides you're part of it again.