A contribution by Jaime M.129

A score of saplings gathered at the feet of an oak ready to fall, pools of murk where the strained light cannot touch, shoots knitted together with moss where grass will not grow, rain captured and kept for weeks beneath the arching roots of a thicket. From the hidden edge of a forest, a mire can spin many yarns, but not a soul will hear its tale. Thus it keeps a shred of the day's light for itself and spills little by little above its trees where folk may see and wonder at its nightly stories, but, still, do they ever understand what it tries to say?

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