I reached Passo Croce, in the Apuan Alps of Tuscany, without a precise plan. The forecast mentioned changing skies, clouds, and some light breaking through — enough to make me hope. The path followed the ridge’s side, hidden by tall grass, with the forest below. Every few steps, the wind rose, carrying the scent of wet earth and the faint sound of branches bending somewhere down the slope.
When I finally reached an open spot, the landscape unfolded before me like a slow revelation. Layers of mountains stretched toward the horizon, each one shifting from shadow to light. The clouds were in constant motion — building, dissolving, breathing. Then, for a brief moment, the sun escaped the clouds and brushed the ridges with gold.
I didn’t rush. I waited. The wind quieted, and the scene settled into a fragile balance — air, stone, and silence. I pressed the shutter almost without thinking. What I captured was not just the view, but the rhythm of that moment: the steady pulse of light moving across the mountains.
When I look at this photograph now, I can still feel that calm. The mountains were breathing, and, for a while, I was breathing with them.
