Seven-thirty in the White Mountains

We meet at seven-thirty at the foot of the White Mountains. It rained all night, yet the sun is already blinding and strong. The air is thick with pure green depth and sweet resin as chlorophyll rises from the last of the fog still clinging to the ridges. Everything feels raw and intensely alive — as if the forest itself has woken hungry. For a moment it seems nature might simply devour us whole, in the most beautiful way.