In the Forest

in gloomy days, the branches sulk with bowed head and shrugged shoulders as though they were tired elders sitting in a nursing home, waiting. Chilly, cutting winds hush the trees, and everything becomes so quiet and cool. The roots below dig upwards, twisting through the ground's black dirt, twiddling in knarles. The trunk looks ill and pale, though its sturdy and hard, strong and tall, thick in width and high in height. It stands to reach the skies and bows down to shorter trees, as though it were the less superior. And shadows thicken as the sun falls behind this forest, and the air grows with a sweeter fragrance. What lies behind the crowds of urban areas, shuffle their feet and scurry on trails by night, passing behind the tallest tree with the saddened branches. They are sucked in by shadows, and forever gone, as though eaten and gripped by the bony twigs that dangle low. Sometimes, with a window sill creep open, out miles is a distant cry of a friend, who'd always leave a set of disappearing footprints in the deep parts of forest, and they become a whispering tale as a mysterious goner. They say the trees feed off with hunger in dark appetite.