Little Goat Mountain the poem that took place of a mountain

Ocra had seemed to be confused by his opinion of the willow trees. She’d questioned him, said they weren’t dangerous, and then shared with him how their bark could actually help with pain. Despite her words, however, he’d still been unable to trust the idea that the trees wouldn’t lead to his death. Having only ever seen one, infected willow tree in all of his life thus far, his view of them was entirely skewed. He’d thought to explain this to her, but, before he’d the chance to speak, the male had said something in his place. There was nothing mentioned about spores, however, which he’d found to be curious. Still had he remained silent about the tree within Blackfeather, a moment having been taken to convince himself—for now, anyways—that maybe not all of the trees could kill.

An offer was laid out on the table, which Xan’d had no problem with snatching. “It would help,” he’d said, then glanced towards Ocra. He wondered if she’d change her mind now, since her friend had offered to join the yearling. Surely, if the trees posed a legitimate threat, she’d not let her companion be near to them.