Down in the dark of the wood, down with the decay and the vermin and the maggots crawling among the remains. Bones, white turned black, crumbling in the dirt at the gnarled roots, running through the earth, back to beginnings that had long ago flown away. Graying lichens inching up the wrinkled, weatherbeaten sides of the tree, stopping short at the heavy branches that stopped trying to look for light. Veins carried a now-quenched fire, once when grasses swayed and breezes rolled over the hills. Moths fly up the branches, past the thorn vines, up to the tips of the leaves, where the dark of the wood is a little harder to see. It’s not the same as it used to be, but the moths look a little more like butterflies in the light coming out of the silver lining in the clouds.

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