rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


Moonlight glazes the high fog, which itself softens the moon that now hangs like a pale, yellow lantern amid the etched branches of the mulberry tree. The woodlands seem a place for secret gatherings and assignations these nights, where dim glades might hum with conversations, and laughter ripple like the gentled streams of spring. I imagine, too, the rustle of cloaks donned to ward off the chill of the April night, and the soft crunch of fallen pine needles underfoot as glimmering figures tread the long-disused paths, so lately winter-bound, where now the sweet breath of spring drifts, witness to the awakening world.

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