The Forest

The forest you enter is oak-brown and primitive. The grasses you step on are crackly beneath your feet because of the recent dry spell. In awe of the size and majesty of the trees, you can't help but look around. Their knotted arms rose ever upwards, as far as your head could lift. They were hoary fortresses and stood proudly. The orchestra of birdsong you could hear from them suddenly stopped. A pair of jays was screeching high up in the canopy of the trees. Jays are the scavengers of the bird world. Their cruel, corvid eyes are always on the lookout for a feathered meal. In the winter, they raid squirrel stores for their nuts, often damning them to starvation. They drifted across our vision in a flash of flesh-pink and warlock-black, trying to size us up. That was the last you saw of them, as they are a furtive bird, full of suspicion.

The morning stars peeped down at you like silver asters, glinting and shimmering. They looked happy in their solar-silver isolation. You could see wild basil growing freely on the clumpy, mossy mattress of the floor. The simpering wind carried a fragrance with it. It was spirit refreshing to smell the mulch mix of the forest’s perfume. You can find a few windfall apples to eat; they're mead sweet with a bitter twist.