The silence after the rain stops

It’s 11:00 a.m. and the forest is still wet, but the rain has just finished—no thunder, no warning, just gone. I stood at the edge of the trail for three minutes, listening to the water drip from the cedar branches like someone counting slowly. Not even a bird dared break it. That kind of quiet isn’t empty. It feels full, like something was said without words. I’ve started noticing how often we mistake silence for nothing. But sometimes it’s just the world holding its breath.