Here, the rain does not fall—it arrives. It settles into the valleys like an old friend who never learned to knock, draping the cedars in silver and filling the air with the scent of wet earth and possibility.
The mountains rise without apology, their peaks lost in clouds that seem less like weather and more like thought. Ferries cut quiet lines across gray water, carrying people who have learned to find beauty in mist, who understand that the sun is a visitor here, welcomed but never expected.
In the morning, steam rises from coffee cups held by hands that know the names of mushrooms, who can tell a Douglas fir from a Western red cedar by silhouette alone. We speak of tides and salmon runs as though discussing neighbors.
This is a land that asks nothing but attention. Where moss grows on the north side of everything. Where the heron stands so still it becomes part of the shore. Where evening comes early in winter and stretches forever in summer, and both feel exactly right.
We belong to these waters, these forests, this persistent gray. Not despite the rain, but because of it.