The Creek Was Low, but the Forest Was Full
On a September walk, I found a forest full of surprises — seedlings sprouting late, fungi bleeding liquid, ants feasting on mushrooms. Each moment carried a question, and each question carried a lesson.
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Listening to the Forest
When I stepped into the woods today, the sound hit me first. Crickets were already in full voice, loud and insistent, like the nighttime chorus turned on early. Their rhythm pulsed like the hiss on a vinyl record, filling every quiet space. A woodpecker hammered in the distance, a blue jay sang its clear four-note whistle, and above it all, planes traced their arcs across the sky. The forest became a layered soundstage, and I let it wash over me like music.
The air was heavy with humidity, almost still, like a blanket. Near the stream the air carried a fragrance like saffron, not spice pulled from crocus, but something wild the woods had conjured, an unexpected perfume rising from damp earth and golden blossoms.
My friends. They trusted me enough to let me pass without running away, though I startled them later on the trail.
Everywhere, the forest told its stories.
A fallen giant, now a nurse log. As it decays, it holds water like a sponge, slowly releasing moisture to the forest floor. Mosses, fungi, and insects thrive in its bark. Seeds germinate on its back, feeding on the rich nutrients of the rotting wood. In time, saplings will grow from it, nourished by the very tree that once towered above them.
A single leaf suspended by spider silk, floating, delicate, held by invisible threads.
People and their egos: “I was here.” Do not do this. The tree already exists without our scars. On smooth beech bark, these carvings last for decades, long after the people who made them have forgotten.
A Destroying Angel, one of the most poisonous mushrooms in North America. Beautiful, ghostly, and deadly.
A quiet masterpiece: rain sketching light across a spider’s patient design.
Then came sweetness.
A wild persimmon, or 감 (gam) in Korean. It nearly clipped me on the head, ripe, soft, and tasting like orange marmalade.
The brook was lower than usual, stones exposed, but still babbling, still singing. Even diminished, it carried calm resilience.
I cannot believe the most poisonous mushroom in North America was right there in the woods near my home. Elegant, almost pure in its white simplicity, and deadly. That blows my mind. I never would have known if I had not stopped to be curious about what was around me.
That is the gift of these walks. Curiosity turns the ordinary into wonder. A fallen tree becomes a nurse log feeding new life. A spider’s silk catches a single leaf in midair, making art out of chance. Even a patch of rotting walnuts has its role in the forest’s endless cycle.
It is humbling, really. The woods remind me that the extraordinary is always close by. All it asks of me is to slow down, pay attention, and look with fresh eyes.
The philosopher Ferris Bueller once said, “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.” That line rang true even when I first heard it as a kid, and it still does today. Out here, surrounded by deer, mushrooms, fruit, and streams, I realized Ferris was right. Life is easy to miss if you do not pause long enough to notice it.
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Echoes in the Wind
A walk through the woods brought me face to face with an owl, the call of a flicker, the sweet scent of pawpaws, and the rhythm of hollow logs. Sometimes the forest carries you, and all you can do is listen.
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