Silvertip Mountain but what's inside you?

he closes his eyes and tries to visualise it. gnarled branches like arthritic hands grasping at red stone. golden streaks glinting and glimmering from every angle.
i have something like that, he remarks, opening his eyes, the fine muscles twitching as they adapt to the light. it was a big tree. did you know you can transplant any branch to almost any trunk, and it'll grow? a massive, heavy, perverse thing. in spring, it bloomed with a patchwork collection of flowers. the bees went mad with it. just take the branch. gnaw at the bark on the trunk. stick them together with wet moss. rows and rows of branches each with its own color, texture, smell. the closest thing mother nature would ever allow to frankenstein.
he pauses, cocks his head, as if catching himself. shall we go spelunking? he gestures towards the gaping esophagus of the cave. the rain continues to tap out its constant and dense rhythm outside.