On a foggy morning last week, I drove to one of my favorite parks for a long walk with my camera (other people walk their dogs, I walk my camera). The fog was burning off quickly, but I was hoping for the miraculous light that sometimes occurs when the sun breaks through below the lifting mist. When I photograph in the woods, I spend a lot of my time waiting, and this morning was no exception. I wandered off the path, stopping in a rise of brambles where I had a clear perspective on straight, half-wet trunks of tulip poplars mixed among the dry, golden leaves of young beeches—a scene I wanted to add to my Heart of the Woods series. I looked through the viewfinder, played with exposure and focus, shot a few "before" images to see that I was framing what I wanted, and then waited for the light. And waited. And waited. Impatiently at first, because it was cold, and I had other plans. But I began to relax as the woods drew me in. My senses opened up, and I was suddenly aware of the soft breeze on my face and the rich odor of wet earth. I listened to a pair of woodpeckers calling excitedly, and followed a squirrel as it hunted for a place to deposit its latest food find. Water dripped rhythmically off branches into the deep pile of leaves underfoot. The sun teased me. I followed its rise behind the clouds and whispered my admonitions to it, but it refused to shine as I wanted. Then it was time to go. I felt a slight tug of disappointment, but I realized I had stopped waiting. Instead, I had started noticing.