The mountains breathe in layers—
blue behind blue
behind blue.

Mist rises slowly
as if the forest is remembering
how to exhale.

I try to do the same.

Stone steps climb through the woods,
water slipping patiently
between old rocks.

Some griefs move like that—
quiet,
persistent,
never asking permission.

Further down the road
a black bear stands in the lane
like a question
the forest has asked
in its ancient tongue.

We stop.

The car idles.
Brake lights glow red in the green.

I wonder which of us
looks more unnatural
to the other.

She lowers her head,
considers us briefly,
then disappears
into the enormous patience
of trees.

Night comes softly here.

Then suddenly
the dark is full of small lanterns—
fireflies
writing quiet messages
between the trees.

And somewhere
beyond the road,

through emerald ferns
and watchful hemlocks

the bear is still speaking
about what she saw.