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A silk blanket upon phalanges that barely cling onto thin air.

Undisturbed, with the fresh smell of cedar accompanied by the nipping cold often unfriendly. Nature does not move in abrupt, violent movements, but rather in tactful, careful steps.

Gently alluring the unsuspecting, strays of mist move onwards into a covert apex, leading into a spiralling abyss, neatly dressed in a seemingly warm cotton cloud. Sounds of innocent chirps and rattles, and churning of lifeless waters.

Out in the country with an unsettling absence of human life. Or is that truly the case? Should the mist settle, shall we be reminded of the long-exhausted embers that, when turned, nest a hiding patch of maggots? Or perhaps the violet dance of black flies that seem to pester unmoving specimen that look out to the direction of the streams.

Or perhaps we are mistaken, for this place is a meeting square – a morning necropolis for lost souls that speak in no humanistic dialect, but the barely audible hissing of the lake. Spectators of life that mock the presence of the mist, yet seemingly perplexed by their timed existence in the woods.

Perhaps this is merely a junction as they find themselves back to where they may decide to call home, as the spiralling apex seems to invite those that are too willing or eager, or those that have given up their journey.

Silently, silk spins upon the queen’s nest until the momentary march ceases.