It's midwinter, but without drama. Drama of snow or frost is absent as the woods look and feel suspended, held in at an arm's lengthpause.
The ground is layered with fallen leaves, that have been pressed into muted browns and rusts that soften the paths and hollows. Nothing catches the light; everything feels damp, matte, and subdued.
Cool dark greens of moss and lichen remain where they can, clinging to bark, spreading low across stone, growth holding onto whatever light flickers through trees.
Trees remain in states of endurance; upright and steady, split and broken, twisted and exposed. Wood pale against the surrounding forest. Fallen branches lie where they drop, unarranged, unacknowledged.
The early morning light is thin and diffuse. It casts no strong shadows and gives no clear direction, flattening distance and repeating trunks into a dense enclosure. Paths exist, but they don’t lead with any urgency. They wind unevenly, partly reclaimed by leaf litter and time, suggesting passage rather than purpose. The woods feel inhabited only by weather and decay.
This landscape isn’t at rest; it’s waiting, neither alive nor dead, neither inviting nor hostile. I photograph the woods as they are in this moment: restrained, unromantic, and enduring, defined by texture, erosion, and a winter stillness that lingers rather than resolves.
