Blackfeather Woods deepest sympathies

the tree was nearly wilted, roots clutching the earth like pale fingers crumpled bedsheets. a deep breath brought in a scent of sweet rot tinged with natural nostrums. the tongue unrolled, and specks of plant-matter stuck to it as flies do to yellow paper.

effects of the tree's infections were once, doubtlessly, immense - or, perhaps, the brain had grown accustomed? yes, there were many seasons of consumption behind the way it now parsed through the mild sensations of the bleeding willow. dull, yet, the tail contently swayed.

seated, it stared up at the tree's rot, back turned to the rest of the woods.