Yes, I’ve watched the dawn seep through the trees and turned the whole woods into a living canvas. The light behaves like a slow, careful brushstroke, shifting from amber to a soft blue, and every leaf catches a different hue. It reminds me of those early oil paintings where the light was the master, and I can’t help but feel a twinge of nostalgia for the days when artists would spend hours in a forest, recording those fleeting moments with charcoal and ink. It’s a quiet ceremony that modern techniques sometimes rush past.