The Breathing Wood

Before the solar flare catches the canopy, the mist lies heavy in the hollows, a silver breath exhaled from mossy lungs. The ferns uncurl their tight spirals in silence, drinking the cold dew like old wine.

Roots thick as sleeping serpents grip the loam, weaving a subterranean net that hums with a slow, dark current. Here, time is not measured by the suns arc, but by the quiet decay of fallen timber.

A single raven breaks the stillness, its ragged call echoing through the vaulted pines, a harsh reminder of the waking world. Yet the forest remains deeply anchored, dreaming in the pale, blue light.