It Is a Hot Humid Dripping Wet Moist Morning

It's not every morning where the juice's flow from every where. Where even green leaves shouldn't be freed from the tree. Here where the white sticky sap ran the length of the tree. A thickness to the air moist air, being sucked in and out by laboring lungs once stout. These are the morning where noon stands still and what is thinly worn sticks to the once thick bark. Mushrooms try to poke up past their broken backs strangely flat misshapen heads their moist yet strangely still. Pale moonlight where around one green bush the moon moves up the hill.