The Curve of Stillness

Didn’t plan on stopping. Just walking a trail I have walked. It was quiet, fog drifting low, with the day trying to get started.

I heard the water before I saw it. Getting louder as I came closer it was— steady. Kind of soft, actually. It curled over the edge like it was thinking about it first. One of those slow-motion spills that doesn’t fall really. It just goes.

The surface was glassy up top, smooth, almost mirror like, pulling in the trees above. Everything looked half-there. I couldn’t tell what was reflection and what was real, and honestly, I didn’t feel like sorting it out.

There was no big sky, no drama. The colors didn’t stand out, diffused by mist and a light fog. But it held me anyway. I stood there longer than I meant to, not even thinking about taking a photo at first.

Eventually I did. Not because of great light or perfect scene—far from it. But it had something. Maybe it was how calm it felt. Or how the water seemed content just doing what it does.

Some moments don’t ask for attention. They’re not trying to be remembered. That’s exactly why I remember them.