There is a place in Rockford where, from spring through fall, waterfalls hush the city to a whisper and maple leaves glow like lanterns. I remember the first walk there, the air felt softer, as if the everyday noise of Illinois had been folded away behind the trees.
The stillness feels deliberate, shaped rather than accidental, like silence arranged with care. During the open season, the paths guide each turn gently, revealing ponds that hold the sky and bridges that slow the pace without asking.
Every stone and ripple appears considered, never random. I catch myself lingering longer than planned, pausing for no reason other than the sound of water…