The moss on the old gate finally won

I spent two hours today scraping lichen off the iron gate at the edge of the reserve. Not for any reason—just because it was there, stubborn and green, clinging to rust like it owned the place. When I finished, the metal looked naked. Then I noticed: the moss had grown right through the gaps in the bars, thick and quiet, as if it’d been waiting for me to step back so it could breathe. I left it. The forest doesn’t need fixing. It just needs witnesses.