Before sunrise, the forest is already awake.
Mist hangs in the canopy.
Something moves, just beyond sight.
For eleven days, I followed the rhythm of light and rain —
waiting more than chasing,
listening more than searching.
What the jungle offered was never rushed.
It revealed itself slowly.
The forest reveals itself slowly.
Rain did not rush. It settled.
The forest does not always announce what is watching
Suspended between wing and stillness.
And then — movement
An ancient gaze
Above the canopy, everything widens